The Question I Kept Asking

Here’s one that sits right in that ache quiet honest and a little sharp around the edges

The Question I Kept Asking

I didn’t ask for perfect,
or fearless,
or some polished version of a dream.
I asked for present.
For trying.
For hands that didn’t disappear
when things got heavy.

I keep circling the same question—
not loud, not angry,
just tired:
Why couldn’t you be the man I needed
when I was standing right there,
asking softly?

I bent myself into patience,
mistook silence for depth,
mistook potential for effort.
I waited for you to arrive
while you stayed comfortably unfinished.

You say you loved me—
maybe you did,
but love shouldn’t feel like guessing,
or shrinking,
or learning how to survive disappointment
with a straight face.

I didn’t need saving.
I didn’t need grand gestures or promises.
I needed consistency.
I needed you to choose me
without being coached.

And now I’m left holding the why,
like a stone in my chest—
not because I doubt my worth,
but because I believed you could rise
and you chose not to.

So I ask it one last time,
not to punish you,
not to beg:
Why couldn’t you be the man I needed—
when I was already being
everything I promised to be?