I called it love. You called it something else. I knew where you were, with whom, and when, who you called and why. I thought that without you I would simply lose myself. I closed the windows against the wind, kept you closer to me. But the tighter my hands closed, the less of you there was in them. You grew quieter, I grew more anxious. We lived side by side, but farther and farther apart. I built a cage out of concrete, with no locks and no doors. And I never heard how little air you had left inside it. I thought that if I held on, I wouldn't lose anything. But love doesn't ask for keys. It simply stays. One day you packed your things. No shouting. No tears. No scenes. A cup was left on the table, and the house suddenly had more walls. I wanted to stop you, but for the first time I stayed silent. Not because I had stopped loving you. Because I finally understood what I had been holding onto. And the night was longer than all our conversations. For the first time, I didn't look for you just to ask where you were. I built a cage out of concrete, with no locks and no doors. And I never heard how little air you had left inside it. I thought that if I held on, I wouldn't lose anything. But love doesn't ask for keys. It simply stays. I could write to you again. Come up with a thousand reasons. Say that everything is different now, ask you to come back. But if I truly understand now, then I have to take the first step not toward you, but away from you. So that you can leave. Now there are no concrete walls between us, no questions about where you are or with whom. You can leave any morning, and I'm no longer afraid of that. I don't hold on to you anymore. And you don't have to stay. But you're standing here beside me. And you're choosing to stay. I guess now, I finally know the difference. Holding on and being there.
