by Andrada Costoiu
Maybe love is not a leash or a lighthouse,
but a window open in a storm:
you learn which rain is baptism and which is flood.
Love does not anchor; it invites the drift.
It does not command the wind; it listens to its language.
It begins not in possession,
but in the trembling recognition
that to touch another soul
is to risk dissolving a little.
We spend lifetimes building walls against uncertainty,
yet love enters through a crack,
uninvited, unreasonable,
with the confidence of light through glass.
Then sits beside us in the quiet aftermath,
asking nothing but our attention.
Some loves are tempests that rewrite coastlines;
others, the still water that reflects a truer sky.
Both matter.
Both shape us.
And the art is learning to open the window
without mistaking surrender for loss.
Because love is not a sanctuary; it’s a field.
The rain will come …. and it should.
Let it drench the old griefs,
let it find the seed you buried and forgot.
Every baptism begins as a flood
to those who fear being washed clean.
So leave the window open.
Let the wind rearrange your hair, your thoughts, your story.
When the storm passes, as all storms do,
you will find not ruin,
but the quiet perfume of earth reborn.
Maybe love is not meant to save us.
Maybe it’s meant to wake us,
to remind us, again and again,
that even in the downpour,
we are still capable of shining.
A note: I wrote this poem on a day when love felt less like certainty and more like weather: shifting, uncontainable, alive.
We often search for safety in it: an anchor, a direction, a promise that won’t move. But love, at its truest, is a force of nature. It asks us not to control it, but to stand inside it, to learn which rains wash us clean and which ones we must simply endure. For me, this poem isn’t about surrender or despair; it’s about awakening. About realizing that the window is always open, that even the storm is a kind of grace.
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