Close to Your Heart, Far From Your Hands

I am sad —

but I am not angry with you.

Sadness is not always rebellion;

sometimes it is simply the shadow of love

standing quietly behind hope.

I live somewhere inside your heart —

in the quiet rooms you do not visit often,

in the pauses between your words,

in the silence you carry at night.

And yet, I am not beside you.

Not in your days.

Not in your hands.

If I wished to protect my pride,

I would say I have everything —

dreams, distractions, a crowded world

full of noise and motion.

I would say I am complete.

But truth does not negotiate with ego.

Truth stands bare.

And the truth is —

without you,

everything feels arranged

yet unfinished.

Full —

yet hollow.

I am not angry.

Because love, when it is real,

does not turn into hatred.

It turns into ache.

Into patience.

Into a quiet endurance

that asks for nothing

and still gives everything.

The poem teaches that genuine love is not possession — it is presence. You can exist in someone’s heart yet not in their life. Real maturity is accepting that love does not always guarantee closeness. Sometimes growth means loving without bitterness, holding truth without pride, and understanding that emotional honesty is stronger than emotional control.