Under the cerulean expanse of a summer sky, we wandered hand in hand, our laughter echoing through the park. The grass cradled our secrets, and memories of childhood danced like fireflies around us. We almost sat on that weathered bench, sharing stories of scraped knees and stolen cookies, our hearts unraveling like old letters.
The strawberries were ripe, their crimson sweetness staining our lips. We almost tasted eternity as we fed each other, the sun casting dandelion shadows on our skin. Puns flowed effortlessly, like the breeze that carried away our whispered dreams. We wondered if we could spin poetry from our shared breaths, our souls entwined in the delicate threads of “almost.”
Clouds paraded across the canvas of the sky, their shapes shifting like our desires. We almost believed we could read our futures in their billowing forms. The sun dipped low, painting the horizon with hues of amber and rose. We almost held infinity in our gaze, but time slipped through our fingers like sand.
Quiet moments found us on your doorstep, raindrops tapping out a hesitant rhythm. I almost kissed you then, my trembling hands seeking solace in your warmth. But courage faltered, and I retreated, leaving echoes of “almost” etched on the doorstep.
Your family remained a constellation of strangers, their stories untold. We almost bridged that gap, but life’s currents swept us apart. Matching t-shirts and holiday adventures became whispered promises, lost in the folds of time.
Thursdays tasted of pasta, and Fridays of cheese and red wine. We almost savored those rituals, our laughter echoing in empty rooms. I almost revealed the hidden corners of my soul, the attic where memories gathered dust. You almost healed my bleeding parts, stitching wounds with gentle words.
Cake crumbs clung to our fingers, and wine flowed freely from unlabeled bottles. Music swirled around us, cleansing our souls of doubt and regret. Almost, we danced to melodies only we could hear, our hearts harmonizing in the quiet spaces between notes.
But it rained that day—the day of almosts. The drops blurred our paths, washing away chances and second guesses. I never found the nerve to ask you to stay, and now you belong to the past—a constellation of “almosts” burned into my heart.
Timing, they say, is everything. And so, we remain suspended in that delicate balance, where love and longing intersect. Almost, my dear, almost. 😔

©️ Beatriz Esmer