Because It Is Free

Love is freedom

or it is not love at all.

What cannot be refused

does not live.

What is kept from leaving

learns the shape of a prisoner.

It does not hold tightly.

It does not close the door.

It leaves space

for you,

for them,

for whatever comes

or goes.

And nothing in you

can control that.

The mind reaches

for something steady,

something that remains.

But safety

speaks a different language.

Safety gathers,

builds walls,

calls them peace.

Love does not.

Love stays open,

even when open

means uncertain.

You do not know

who will remain.

You do not know

what will last.

Still,

you feel.

And here

it begins to ache.

They may choose you.

They may not.

This is the edge of it.

This is where it hurts.

Because love

does not secure,

it releases.

And still,

it returns.

Not as something you keep,

but something you meet

again,

and again.

It is not permanence

that makes it true,

but choosing.

Freely.

Without force.

Without holding.

And when it is chosen

like this,

it stays.

Not because it must,

but because it is wanted.

So you loosen your hands.

You stop trying

to keep

what was never meant

to be kept.

You remain open.

And in that openness

something becomes clear.

Love was never yours

to own,

only to live.

It becomes real

in the moment

you could close,

and do not.

Because it is free.