How can I be your right person at the wrong time
when I spent so long begging
for a love you handed out in fractions?
You say the timing failed us,
as though the calendar
was the villain of our story.
But it was never time.
It was the nights I waited
for you to choose me
while you weighed every reason not to.
It was me building a home
from promises you never intended to keep,
while you quietly searched
for doors you hoped I’d walk through.
I called it patience.
You called it too much.
I called it love.
You called it eventually.
If I had mattered
the way you mattered to me,
our ending would’ve looked different.
Our days would’ve felt lighter.
I wouldn’t have had to beg
for what should have been given freely.
Instead,
I stood still,
watering a garden
whose roots you had already decided to pull.
You spent months
hoping I would finally leave,
while I spent those same months
learning how to stay
through every silence,
every excuse,
every piece of affection
that came only when it was convenient.
So don’t call me
your wrong time, right person.
Because if I was ever the right person,
you would’ve fought the clock with me,
not watched it
count down
until I finally disappeared.