I have been patient with you.

Let’s be clear.
I’m not Number Two.
I’m not Number One, either.

I am the only one.
(Yes — that one. The rare kind. Not available in duplicates.)

Maybe you don’t understand.
Because you’ve never learned how to be true to anyone other than yourself.
(That must be exhausting — carrying all that ego alone.)

What you can see is that I am different every day.

Today, I am smiling and all perky,
singing songs of yesteryear's hits like I’m starring in my own nostalgic music video.

And the next, I am as quiet as can be —
zoning out, piercing through the galaxy,
not a word, not a flicker.

Yes, you don’t understand me. Even if you try.
But do you have to?
Isn’t it enough that I love you?

I am just like the honey.
Inconsistent? Maybe.
But that’s not up to me — the nectar comes from the bees’ choices.
And trust me, no one dictates bees.

But bees aren’t foolish. They’re intentional.
They choose.

They choose the ones that matter —
blooms for their queen, pollen for their future.

And the sap? No one knows if it's for the queen or for the broods. Sap is mysterious like a woman's true feeling, putting a smile on her face, while her heart screams.

They don’t settle.

Yes, the honey today is not the same as the honey in a fortnight.
You can harvest from the same tree, the same hive —
but you’ll never taste the same.

Because the blooms change.
And the bees choose again.

So I ask:
What do you choose?
And if you choose… do you choose with dignity?

Honey — like me — is complex.
It changes, hardens, crystallizes.
But that doesn’t mean it’s impure.
It just means it got tired.
Cold.

It learned to protect itself.

From words that didn’t hold.
From actions that bent sideways.

Should I trust you again?

My trust now lies with the bees.
And like them, I’ll choose different blooms as the last one fades.

I’ll rebuild.
A new hive. A new rhythm.
Same roots for now, loyal to the tree.
But when it’s time, I’ll fly.

To somewhere warmer.
For new hope.
For a new beginning.

Away from you.

Unapologetically me,

— Nirwana

________

P.S.
Yes, this might sound like a love letter to someone.
Maybe it is.
Maybe it isn’t.
Either way, the honey knows. 🐝