Almost

When I first met her,

I wrote a poem

And called it “Lovely”

Because that’s what

She was to me.

I wrote about her smile

And the way it felt more

Infinite than an ocean,

When she looked at me

With her beautifully warm

Brown eyes.

I wrote about the way

Her tears

Fell upon her cheeks

Harder than raindrops

Against the pavement

During heavy storms

I wrote about her name

That rolled down my throat

Like hot cocoa.

I wrote about flowers

And lemonade and

The way it felt

When she stole my breath

From my lungs,

That grew weak

At the sight of her

I wrote about cheesy romantic comedies

And love ballads,

About her laugh

And the way it felt to hold her

Amidst the scattered wreckage

That surrounded us.

I wrote until my fingers bled

And my hands were numb,

Until my back ached

And my stomach felt

As if the contents

Had been spilt all over

The coffee table

In front of me

She was the easiest thing

I have ever been able to

Write about.

I wrote songs,

Enough to fill albums

And poems,

Enough to fill 32 books

In a series

I would like to entitle

‘Almost’.

In the Oxford Dictionary,

The word ‘almost’ means

‘Not quite’ or ‘very nearly’.

It originated from the phrase

“For the most part”

For example,

I had her for the most part,

Could roughly translate to

I almost had her.

Or I fell in love with her

For the most part,

Could change to

I almost fell in love with her.

She was an almost.

I was an almost.

We were an almost.

Have you ever realized that

The more you

Repeat a word,

The more it starts

To lose it’s meaning?

Like if you say, “I’m sorry”

Every single time

You do something wrong

And never prove how apologetic

You truly are,

People stop forgiving you.

Or if you say

“I love you”

Every single time

You walk out on someone

Or tear apart their insides,

They stop believing you.

The last day I spoke to her,

I wrote a poem

And called it

“Drunk”

Because that’s what

She was to me.

I wrote about her smile

And the way it felt emptier than

An abandoned warehouse,

When she looked at me

With her lifeless

Brown eyes.

I wrote about the way

Her tears

Fell upon her cheeks

Like a faucet that

The skies forgot to turn off

Or like a water-drain

That continues to flow,

During a flood

I wrote about her name

That rolled down my throat

Like a razor,

Ripping open my insides

And edging its way

Through my stomach

I wrote about wilted flowers

And lemonade

That had been left sitting

For too long and

The way it felt

When she stole my breath

From my lungs,

That grew weak

Because of her

I wrote about horror movies

And dramatic love ballads,

About her smile

And the way it felt to hold her

Amidst the scattered wreckage

That surrounded us.

I wrote until my fingers bled

And my hands were numb,

Until my back ached

And my stomach felt

As if the contents

Had been spilt all over

The coffee table

In front of me

I almost had her.

She almost had me.

We were an almost.

It’s evening now

And there’s liquor on my lips,

Burning my throat

And hollowing my heart,

But I cannot stop writing.

People say that

You can only write when

You’re in love

Or depressed,

I don’t find that to be true.

I feel the only way

You can truly write about love

Is when you’re alone

Or when you’ve fallen out of it.

You see,

As a writer,

We’re always too afraid

To put our words to paper,

As no metaphor

Or simile

Or anecdote

Could ever describe

The way she snores at 3am,

When she thinks you have

Already fallen asleep.

All the things you see

And hear and feel and smell,

They’re all trapped inside of you.

She says

That she doesn’t wish

To be with anyone else

And she doesn’t like

The idea of her lips being pressed

To anything other than

My lips or a bottle of vodka;

I cannot tell which one

Is killing her the most.

But for me,

That’s enough.

She is more than enough.