You sat at the table

like we were still writing a story—

but the ink was dry

and the pen uncapped.

Your smile came late,

like a plane missing its gate,

and I couldn’t help

but scan your face for delays.

We talk in complete sentences

but mean fragments,

like:

“If I hadn’t been tired.”

“If you’d just said it first.”

⸻

Our memories are neat now—

stored in rows,

lined with ifs.

I remember when you laughed

and your eyes forgot to follow.

I wonder if you noticed

I stopped reaching

before you did.

Even goodbyes get rehearsed,

and ours felt

like it passed a dress code.

⸻

What’s harder—

the words left behind,

or the ones we made behave?

Even truth wore a buttoned collar

when we spoke.

I once thought

your quiet was soft.

Now I think

it was armor.

⸻

We were almost always,

nearly right.

Perfectly timed

to almost ignite.

We held hands like strangers

practicing warmth.

Every smile

came pre-approved.

⸻

We were nearly something,

close to clear.

A tender illusion

year after year.

If love was waiting,

we dressed it in doubt—

and never asked it

to come out.

⸻

“lined with ifs… lined with ifs…”

“lined with ifs… lined with ifs…”

“lined with ifs… lined with ifs…”

“lined with ifs… lined with ifs…”

“lined with ifs… lined with ifs…”