Almost Loved
They smiled, I hoped. They blinked, I bled. They laughed—and thunder crowned my head. A brush of fingers, and I dreamed, of love in places it never gleamed.
I fall too fast, too deep, too wide, I pour my oceans, then they hide. A glance, a word—a borrowed spark, and I’m already naming every dark.
No vows were made, no strings were tied, just evenings where the stars had lied. A seat beside them, never "mine," a season missed, a warped timeline.
I am the bouquet none would choose— petals in shades of loss and bruise. Fragrant still, in tender doom, a relic dressed in aching bloom.
Pressed in pages no one reads, tied with threads of unmet needs. And still I stay—too sweet to curse, too soft to name the ways it hurts.
My grief? That old, exquisite sting— la douleur exquise with clipped wings. Not heartbreak loud or sorrow sung, but silence stretched across my lungs.
Loving you? A velvet doom. A self-inflicted, quiet gloom. A sip of fire laced with grace, a tear that never left my face.
You flirted like you meant the stars— then vanished with your unseen scars. And I, too gentle to demand, just let my love slip through your hand.
Perhaps I'm Tinker Bell, alight— forever burning out of sight. Faithful winged and sugar-spun, but Peter Pan always picks the sun.
So if you flirt, then mean it whole— don’t haunt the corners of my soul. And if I linger in your head, know this: I bloomed in love, but was never fed.