I almost took you to a park—a quiet one, where the benches had names carved into them by other almost-lovers. We almost sat under a blue sky, letting childhood memories unravel between us like kite strings, fragile and free. Strawberries stained our fingers, and puns tumbled between smiles that barely held back something deeper. We almost lay side by side, eyes turned skyward, laughing at clouds and wondering whether poetry would love us if we tried to write it.

You almost kissed me once—at the edge of daylight, when silence pressed in like a held breath. I remember my hands trembling on your doorstep, the courage knocking louder than I could. I almost met your family. Almost traced your history with my fingertips and asked how many stars you wished on as a child.

We almost had Thursday pasta and Friday wine, our rituals scribbled in crooked handwriting on a shared calendar. I almost showed you the attic of me—the rooms locked away with names and dust and half-forgotten dreams. You almost let me clean the parts of you still bleeding, and I almost knew how.

We almost fed each other cake with our fingers. We drank straight from bottles, music echoing through us as though sound could rinse the ache from our bones. Almost. Almost everything.

But it rained that day.

And I never found the nerve to ask you to stay.

Now, timing sits like a note left on the wrong doorstep. You belong to the past—where all the almosts go. Not unloved, just unspoken. Not forgotten, just unwritten. 😔

©️ Beatriz Esmer