Come closer, woman.
Bring me the story exactly as it happened—
not polished,
not forgiven,
not made smaller
so a man may bear hearing it.
You think illusion means
your love was false.
No.
Your love was real.
It was the house around it
that you imagined.
He gave you laughter,
warm hands,
a few bright evenings,
a glimpse through a window—
and you,
being a maker of beautiful things,
built an entire home
from the light that escaped.
Do not call yourself foolish.
Hope is a gifted seamstress.
Give her three scraps of tenderness
and she will sew a wedding cloak.
Give her one unlocked window
and she will imagine
every door standing open.
But he lived in hidden rooms.
He let you love the outline
while guarding the center.
Then he said,
“You do not know me,”
as though your eyes had failed.
They did not.
No woman can see
what a man has chosen to conceal.
Now listen carefully:
Do not burn the love.
Burn the illusion.
Keep the nights that were joyful.
Keep the laughter.
Keep the pleasure
that belonged to your body.
But return the imagined future.
Return the unopened rooms.
Return the belief
that patience would someday
make him brave enough
to be fully known.
And do not drink friendship
from a cup still tasting of farewell.
Let him keep his distance.
You keep your dignity.
The forest has not taken your love
to punish you.
It has stripped away the false path
because you are finally ready
to find your own door.
Walk home, woman.
Your heart is broken,
but your eyes are open.
That is how the witch
begins again.
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