“Wings That Left”

She loved butterflies.

Delicate, fleeting, wild things —

just like her.

I used to watch how her eyes lit up

when one danced past,

as if it whispered secrets

meant only for her soul.

And maybe it did.

Maybe they recognized each other —

fragile hearts with strong wings.

But what do you do

when the butterfly you cherish

chooses the wind over your hand?

I tried to hold her,

not cage her —

but maybe even open hands

can feel like chains

to someone born to fly.

She left me with questions

like broken feathers in my throat.

I kept choking on the memories,

the what-ifs,

the nights I thought love was enough.

It wasn’t.

I was angry —

not at her for leaving,

but at myself for believing

she’d stay.

But forgiveness…

Forgiveness is not weakness.

It’s not saying I deserved the silence,