You Say I Can’t

You say I can’t have him

like love is something

you get to hand out

or take away.

Like my heart

needs your permission

to beat the way it does

when he says my name.

You speak in lines and limits,

in rules I never agreed to—

drawing borders

around something

that never asked to be contained.

But you don’t feel it.

You don’t know

what it’s like

to find someone

who quiets the noise,

who fits into your thoughts

like they’ve always belonged there.

You don’t know

how rare it is

to feel seen

without having to explain yourself.

So don’t tell me

what I can’t have.

Don’t reduce this

to right or wrong,

allowed or forbidden,

as if love

has ever listened

to reason.

Because this—

whatever this is—

isn’t yours to judge.

It lives in me.

It breathes in him.

And whether it lasts

or breaks me open,

it’s still mine

to feel.