Writing

Almost

We never held hands long enough

for our fingers to memorize each other,

never said the brave, trembling words

that make a thing real.

Yet somehow,

I am grieving you.

We were a sunrise that never rose—

just a quiet glow

behind closed curtains,

promising color

but surrendering to gray.

There was no anniversary to forget,

no photographs to hide,

no fights to replay at 2 a.m.

Only what ifs

folded neatly in the corners of my heart.

You were almost.

Almost mine.

Almost something

I could name without fear.

We spoke in maybes,

in soft laughter

that lingered too long,

in pauses heavy

with everything we didn’t dare confess.

And when you left—

or maybe when I did—

nothing shattered.

No glass.

No slammed doors.

Just a quiet closing,

like a book

someone forgot to finish.

Still, the ache remains—

strange and stubborn—

for a love

that never began

yet somehow

felt broken.