The Almost

Between the word you meant to speak and the breath that swallows it— that's where I live now, in the hinge of almost.

Your hand reaching for a glass, my hand reaching into the same light: the space between becomes the song, a silence that hums.

I've learned the language of margins, how white page holds more than ink, how the nearly-said carries weight that finished sentences cannot bear.

So here, in the almost and the nearly, the not-yet-forgotten shimmer at the edge of sight— this is home: the half-spoken, the half-remembered, the light that lingers just past reaching.