ALMOST

We met before we knew

what it meant to burn.

Two kids with stolen glances,

mouths full of firsts

and hearts too loud to ignore.

You were the ache

before I knew its name—

a seed of fire tucked

under my ribs,

growing with every year

we didn’t choose each other.

Time made strangers of us,

then lovers in theory—

never in flesh.

We kept missing the train

by a breath, a baby,

a marriage built from dust.

You always came back

when I was breaking,

like a ghost summoned

by heartbreak’s scent.

But love—real love—

needs more than haunting.

I wanted you

to chase me,

to make me feel

like I was worth the gas,

the plan, the weekend.

But you wanted ease.

You wanted me to vanish

into your story

without leaving footprints

in my own.

So I let go.

I cut the thread

you never held tightly.

And still,

some nights,

I dream of the version

where you tried.

Not for me.

For us.

And maybe that version

lives somewhere

in a world

we’ll never reach.

A place called

Almost.