Poems

Almost
I don’t think we were meant
to forget each other—

just meant
to learn how to live without it.

Because you didn’t feel new.
You felt remembered.

Like something in me softened
the moment you existed—
like I had been here before,
standing in the quiet of you,
trying not to want more
than I was allowed to.

And we were careful.
God, we were careful.

Two people
with lives already built,
hands already held,
names already spoken
in places we couldn’t undo.

So we stayed in the in-between—
where nothing crosses a line,
but everything leans toward it.

Where a conversation
can feel like too much,
and not enough
all at once.

I don’t know what it is—

but something about you
lingers longer than it should.

The way your voice settles in me.
The way silence with you
never feels empty.

Like even in distance,
there’s something still
pulling.

And I try to make sense of it—

but it doesn’t make sense.

Not when we both go back
to lives that don’t include this.
Not when everything stays intact
except this quiet, constant ache.

Still—

I catch myself thinking
there has to be a version of us
that didn’t hesitate.

A version that didn’t have to
measure every word,
every moment,
every almost.

A version where I didn’t have to
convince myself
this was enough.

But this life…

this life only gives us pieces.

Just enough to feel it.
Never enough to keep it.

And somehow
that might be the hardest part—

not losing you…

but knowing
I never really got
to have you
at all.