The Window, Not the Door

I could invent a thousand tales of you —
Your thoughts, your days, your quiet, hidden core.
But what I know is little, and what’s true
Is just the glimpse you give me — not the door.

Sometimes I feel your cells against my skin,
As if I’ve known you longer than this breath.
But that’s a story I’ve been living in,
As thin as glass — I don’t know all your depths.

You open just a crack — and I don’t push.
I understand the fear of letting in.
Because this feeling isn’t safe or hushed —
And neither knows where it might end, begin.

I’m tired of guessing who you are, what hurts,
Of crawling underneath your skin in vain.
I know so little — just your voice, your words,
Your silence. And I’m learning to refrain.

But what you show — I take with open hands.
No questions, no demands, no “what if” games.
Your presence warms me more than any plans.
I’ve changed — and that alone is worth the change.

I won’t hold on too tight, nor disappear —
No script to follow, nothing to foresee.
Let what must come, just come. I’ll meet it here.
Meanwhile, my life belongs entirely to me.

I watch your steps, your path, but not your choice.
If you decide to come — you’ll find me here.
Not waiting in the dark, but with my voice
Still humming my own song, still bright and clear.

I’ll be alive — and you, if you return,
Will find a woman who has learned to be
Alone, but whole. Perhaps that’s what we learn
When love is real — and real love leaves us free.