The Things We Almost Say

There is a language 
spoken only in half-glances, 
in the weight of a pause 
just before someone smiles. 

It’s in the hand 
that almost reaches out— 
then doesn’t. 

In footsteps that slow 
as they pass a familiar door. 

We live so much 
… almost. 

The almost word, 
the almost touch, 
the almost truth 
we wrap in softer sentences. 
 

We are architects 
of unsent messages, 
of thoughts folded neatly 
and placed back into drawers. 

But still– 
the moon rises without fail, 
a silver coin slipped under my pillow
by some gentle universe
that forgives
what we were too quiet to offer.

And in the hush

between midnight and morning,

the heart listens

for what it already knows—

that even the unspoken

can echo

if you’re still enough

to hear it.