The finest thing about love
is not the entering.
Anyone can arrive
with clean shoes, a bright mouth,
and a bouquet pretending
not to have thorns.
Anyone can say forever
while checking the exits.
No, the finest thing about love
is knowing when to leave
with your pulse still dressed,
Your pearls still on,
Your name is still pronounced correctly
by your own mouth.
There is a dignity
In closing the door softly
When the room has forgotten
How to hold you.
There is a rare intelligence
in refusing to become fluent
in someone else’s neglect.
I have loved enough
to know the difference
between a storm
and a man who enjoys thunder.
I have stayed long enough
to learn that patience,
when misused,
becomes interior design
for a prison.
And I, darling,
was not born
to decorate my own captivity.
Love, in its highest form,
does not beg.
It does not crawl through the hallway
holding yesterday’s apology
like a government document.
It stands upright.
It washes its face.
It pays attention.
And when it is no longer honored,
It gathers its silk,
It’s laughter,
It’s good earrings,
It’s emergency chocolate,
and exits with the kind of calm
That makes the chandelier nervous.
This is not bitterness.
Bitterness is heavy,
And I have errands.
This is wisdom
with lipstick on.
This is the holy arithmetic
of self-respect:
One woman
minus one illusion
equals a life
with windows.
So let love be beautiful.
Let it be generous.
Let it bring bread,
music,
clean hands,
and the courage
to tell the truth.
But when love becomes
a small room
with no air,
walk away.
Not dramatically.
Not for applause.
Not to be chased.
Walk away
because your spirit
has already packed.
Walk away
because peace
has been waiting downstairs
with the engine running.
Walk away
because the finest thing
about love
is knowing
that you are still loved
even when you leave—
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