Love hurts
because it tells you the one thing
no one wants to hear:
sometimes the right person
shows up
before the right version of you.
It feels like failure.
It isn’t.
It’s timing.
Two people becoming themselves
at different speeds.
She is learning to believe in the weight of her own soul.
He is trying to stay loyal to a dream
the world keeps asking him to retire.
For a moment,
they make each other braver.
The city shifts.
Subways feel navigable.
A park bench whispers
go ahead, float awhile.
And it almost works.
But growth asks for distance.
And love isn’t just who you choose
it’s who you’re willing to become.
They don’t end because they failed.
They end because they changed.
Years later, in the poetry aisle,
one look explains everything.
In another life, they stay.
In this one, they become.
That isn’t tragedy.
That’s adulthood.
The quiet ache of knowing
some people save you
by not staying.