You’re Not Mine to Keep

You are not mine to keep.

Though sometimes,

in the quiet hum of bedtime,

I forget that.

I tuck you in like I’m sealing up the world.

I kiss your forehead

like it might make you invincible.

I whisper “I love you”

like it’s armor.

But I know—

deep down in the part of me

that counts your breaths—

you are only mine

for a while.

One day,

you’ll grow legs that take you places

I’ve never been.

You’ll ask questions

I won’t have answers to.

You’ll make choices

that both thrill and terrify me.

You’ll laugh at things

I don’t understand.

You’ll love people

I haven’t met.

You’ll leave pieces of yourself

in cities I’ll never see.

And I’ll be proud.

And I’ll be scared.

And I’ll want to hold you tighter

than life will allow.

This is the paradox:

I raise you to be brave,

but pray you’ll never be too far.

I teach you to soar,

while secretly hoping you’ll circle back.

But I won’t cage you.

Because love isn’t possession—

it’s permission.

So go, little one.

Run toward your becoming.

Just don’t forget

the map etched into your heart—

the place where my arms

will always be open

should you need to rest.

You were never mine to keep.

But you’ll always be mine

to love.