Grasping

It hurts, this wanting.

It is there, waiting for me to grasp it.

But nothing is free.

There is always a price to pay.

And a high price it is. To be paid with one currency only.

This currency doesn’t come from a pocket, it comes from the heart.

To be paid in pain. Doled out, without regard. Punching, cutting, pain.

There is no higher price to pay.

So who am I to let this currency loose to do it’s harm?

Better I should hold this currency close, letting it dig at my heart.

Wrapping my arms around this want, tightly, weeping for my lose.