Open Hand

There was a time
I thought love meant
holding tighter
when things began to slip.

Now I know—

love is not the clenched fist.

It is the open hand
that can hold
and when it must—
let go.

Sometimes I still see it—
a faint circle on my skin,
like something
my body remembers
before I do.

But it doesn’t pull me under
anymore.

Now it just says:

I loved deeply.

And I don’t regret that.

What we had was real.
What broke was real.

Both can exist
without canceling each other out.

I don’t need to decide
who you were.

I only need to decide
what I accept.

And I don’t accept
a love
that leaves.

I used to think forgiveness
meant opening the door again.

Now I know—

it’s quieter than that.

It’s the moment
your choices
stop defining me.

It’s choosing myself
without needing
an explanation.

So I let go
of what I cannot carry—

the questions,
the weight,
the need to understand.

And I keep
what was always mine:

the love I gave,
the strength I found,
the certainty
that I will be okay.

Not because it didn’t break me—

but because
I know how to rebuild
with my own hands.

JMS