Finally

I searched for meaning
inside the mouths of others,
called love by names
that were never mine to keep.

I mistook longing for devotion,
and silence for depth.
I held on to almosts
as if they were promises,
and made homes
out of places that asked me to leave.

I thought being chosen
was the same as being loved.
I thought staying
was proof of something.
So I stayed
long after my heart
had begun speaking in exits.

But nothing wild
was ever meant to remain still.

The river does not apologize
for finding another way.
The sky does not grieve
when the clouds let go.
And the wind—
it never asks permission
to become somewhere else.

Maybe that is what I was afraid of:

not losing them,
but losing the version of me
that existed beside them.

So I loosened my hands.

Not because it stopped hurting,
but because I finally understood
that love should not require
the death of the self
to prove it was real.

And now,
after all this time,
I no longer chase
what turns away.

I no longer confuse
being missed
with being loved,
or being needed
with being known.

I let what leaves, leave.
I let what stays, stay.

And for the first time,
I am not standing at the window
waiting for something
to come back.

I am standing here
with the door open,

feeling the air move through me,

and finally,

finally,

I understand the wind.