To love is to set free.
And to let her go is to accept that I lost her — at least that is what they said.
To let her go is to admit that stars are meant for our eyes to wish upon, but not for us to catch.
To let her go is to admit that the waves are just there to entertain our childish souls, and to accept that her ocean is not enough for me to breathe in the water.
To let her go is to admit that sunsets are just meant for paintings and photographs but not for us to bring home; not for us to taste like a bitter, cold coffee in a rainy morning; or a pillow we can get soaked with our tears at night; nor a cigarette we can drag in when our lungs are frozen for the absence of embrace.
To set free is to let go.
Maybe it was not her that I need to set free.
She never was here in the first place.
And mabe it is just me who is still imprisoned in this illusion that she has the key when all I ever did was lock her up that is why she wanted to be free —
and so she is freed.
