If I could’ve said it—
just once, out loud,
maybe you would’ve stayed
a little longer in the doorway,
lingered in that moment
where your eyes asked questions
my silence was too scared to answer.
I loved you quietly.
Not because I didn’t want more,
but because more felt risky—
like a house of glass
I was too afraid to live in,
too afraid to shatter
with a single misplaced word.
I memorized your routines,
not to intrude,
but to feel close
in a world where closeness
meant vulnerability,
and vulnerability meant
handing you the parts of me
I wasn’t sure you’d keep.
I told the moon about you.
Wrote entire chapters in my mind
about the way your laughter
could disarm my sadness.
But I never sent a single sentence
your way—
not because it wasn’t real,
but because it was too real.
You were the almost
that became a lesson.
The what-if
I still carry in quiet hours.
And every time someone asks
why we drifted,
I smile and say—
"some things are just not meant to be."
But deep inside,
I know the truth.
We never really drifted.
We just never spoke
what our hearts were screaming.
And now,
those unspoken feelings
have turned into poetry—
because that’s the only place
where my truth
feels safe enough
to finally breathe.
Speak unspoken feelings in your poetry, for all your wishes will come true there in the imaginary world, which sometimes surpasses reality.