The Art of Almost

We were a brushstroke shy of bloom,

A melody just out of tune.

A clock that stopped at not quite now,

A handshake made without a vow.

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You were the rain that almost fell,

A story I could almost tell.

The door that creaked but never swung,

The song I almost knew by tongue.

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We touched the edge of something bright—

A comet’s tail, a spark in night.

But comets fade, and sparks retreat,

And almost is so bittersweet.

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I keep you like a folded page,

A dream that slipped its golden cage.

Not lost, not found—just paused in flight,

The art of almost, done just right.