Wrong time, Wrong choice

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.