Untitled

Almost is the crush, velvet and warm rose,
we sit on the rooftop trading time in pocket memories,
and if we buzz where our fingers are almost but not touching,
there’s no one here to see the spark.

In the elliptical orbit we are almost,
we are potential with a leash around its throat,
the imminent choke.

Forgive us the timeline we never make,
the things we never create,
the way our hands never fold into each other.

In a thousand years
we spill so much inevitability into the coffee,
dilute it to a brown cosmic swirl
of unidentifiability.

We unfurl, fall apart to paper memory,
trace each other’s palms in dreams that are
almost, almost,
but never really there.

am kennedy, “Almost”
(via siilentiary)

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