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.
Through the Fog 