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Ren Walden

I am almost likable. They create words for the almost: situationship, talking, “it’s complicated.”
But almost is our space, the one that no one can really name. Too close, not close enough.
Everything in between me and you. Nothing between me and you. Almost. I am within reach of
you, but my arms fall too short and we are almost touching. I am sitting on my bed and it’s
almost like you’re there, like maybe the warmth circling my body isn’t conjured by my mind,
like maybe you decided to stay the night, like maybe I could’ve asked anything right there and
you’d offer me a slight smile. Yes, almost. I almost asked what we could be, the forbidden fruit
that could easily fall from my jaw, there goes my almost. Almost, yes, she’s mine, but she’s
yours, she’s ours, yet she’s no one’s and everyone’s and I wish I didn’t think about how you
almost like me. Maybe if I kept my hand on yours for slightly longer or brushed my hair slightly
harder or kissed you like I knew there’d be an almost, I wouldn’t be waiting on being likable,
being yours, being something and yet everything but not nothing. My maybes become almost’s
excuses, my yets almost’s lovers, my buts almost’s synonyms. I am almost over it. I almost
deserve more.

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