We Almost Were

We almost were—

and that almost

still breathes in me

like a second heartbeat.

We were the quiet before a confession,

the text typed and erased,

the hands that learned each other

without ever holding on.

You lived in my days

like a soft unfinished sentence.

Not enough to call home,

too much to forget.

We mastered the art of almost:

almost brave,

almost honest,

almost choosing each other

over fear.

I remember how we looked

at the same future

from opposite sides of courage.

How love knocked,

and we pretended not to hear

because it asked for more

than we thought we could give.

You were never mine—

but you were close enough

to bruise the word forever.

Sometimes I wonder

if the universe paused for us,

waiting to see

if we’d leap.

We didn’t.

So it moved on.

And now you exist

in that tender archive

of things that shaped me

without staying.

I don’t grieve you

the way people grieve endings.

I grieve you

the way they grieve

unopened letters

and roads not taken.

We almost were—

and somehow,

that almost

became a chapter

I still reread

on quiet nights.