Possession Poem by ashok jadhav

(A solitary figure steps forward, voice low, eyes burning with certainty that slowly fractures.)
They say I possess—
as if it is a crime.
As if love itself does not cling,
as if wanting to keep is not human.
I did not mean to cage you.
I only feared the space where you might leave.
So I filled it—with questions,
with rules, with my name carved into your breath.
At first, it felt like devotion.
I watched, I guarded, I held on tight.
I told myself: This is care.
I told myself: This is protection.
But possession is quiet at the start.
It doesn't shout—
it whispers mine
until the word becomes a wall.
I measured your smiles,
counted your silences,
felt threatened by your freedom
as if it were betrayal.
Tell me—
when did love stop trusting
and start demanding proof?
I see it now in your eyes:
how my presence weighs,
how my touch asks permission no longer.
And still, part of me resists release.
Because letting go feels like erasing myself.
Because without owning,
I don't know how to love.
So here I stand—
keeper and thief,
calling it affection
while stealing air.
If I am to love truly,
I must loosen my grip.
For love does not survive possession—
it survives choice.