The Want I Dare Not Hold

I want it not for joy alone,
Nor for the warmth of hand or home.
But for the self I glimpse, unclear—
The one I meet when it draws near.

It calls not loud, but ever real,
A hunger I refuse to feel.
Not out of shame, nor fear of fall—
But knowing I may lose it all.

If I don’t have it, I won’t break—
Its absence was mine to take.
If it arrives, it breaks the frame—
A miracle I will not name.

I live between the if and not,
A tethered thread I never caught.
To want so much, and yet restrain—
To let it rise, but not remain.

Perhaps it’s better left unclaimed,
Unshaped by joy, untouched by name.
For what is grasped must someday slip—
And beauty fades beneath a grip.

At least like this, it cannot die,
Nor rot beneath a binding tie.
It drifts—alive, but undefined—
A myth that guards a hidden mind.

Yes, I have dreamed of touch and flame,
But not enough to risk the same
Collapse that follows every high—
The silent ache when wonders die.

And maybe that’s a kind of peace—
To love the want, and not the feast.
To walk beside the echo’s edge,
Not leap, but learn to live on ledge.

I never fear the silent end—
In truth, I greet it like a friend.
From day one, I have always known:
All gifts come with the seeds of gone.

So if it fades, I’ll bear the cost—
Not broken, only what was lost.
And if it stays, by fate or grace,
I’ll touch its light, then give it space.

This is the way I’ve come to be:
A quiet want that sets me free.
Not trapped by gain, nor stunned by lack—
I move ahead, and don’t look back.

For even longing, when well-worn,
Can cradle rather than deform.
And wanting what I may not hold—
That too is mine. That too is bold.