A Question Wanting

It hurts to want. It hurts, and when the want seems this sound, the only way to stop it is to stop the imperfect self. “I cannot have, so I cannot be” goes the refrain.

I want a love worth living, but all I have is a life wanting love.

“all I have.”

As if a life is small change, scrounged from a blue jeans pocket and carelessly left as gratuity for someone who might give a fuck. As if lives come and go, but loves last forever.

I have been asking the wrong questions. I have been wanting her to come and be the person I want to be instead of being her myself.

Who am I? Who do I want to be?

If I met me, would I love me?
I do not know the answer.

But I do know:
it needs to be yes, it needs to be yes, it needs to be yes.