They say, maybe I never really loved you.

Maybe I only loved the possibility
of being loved by you.

And maybe it felt so real
because I was the one
pouring all this longing into someone
who never asked to be held that way.

They say, maybe I wasn’t loving you.
Maybe I was begging myself
to feel worthy through you.

They say, it wasn’t love
if it started from the wrong why.

That maybe I wasn’t loving.
I was seeking.
I wanted to win you just once more,
so I could rewrite all the versions of myself
I never knew how to forgive.

That I wanted your yes to undo all my no’s.
That I needed you to make it make sense.

But if it wasn’t real,
then why do I still feel it
in the deepest parts of my body?

Why do I still flinch at the thought
of someone else knowing your quiet?

Why does it still feel like I’m leaving
something I never meant to lose?

I keep asking.

Is it you I miss,
or the story I wrote around you?

Am I grieving you,
or the person I thought I could become
when I loved you?

I don’t know how to tell the difference.

But if I’m still holding it this tightly,
doesn’t that mean some part of it,
was true?

They say the right thing is to let you go.
To surrender the dream,
and walk away without looking back.

But if I let you go,
does that mean I have to let go
of all the version of me
who still dares to believe?

If love came from a cracked reason,
does that make it less real?

Tell me.
What’s real?