Almost Maybe
1 min readJun 5, 2020
Your eyes,
all-consuming
like quicksand
or whiskey.
Honeymoons of fidelity
orbiting around black holes of uncertainty,
desperate to control
just how much light gets in.
I could never control
how much of you got in.
I always believed in deadbolts,
but you demanded chain link
and now
all of my beliefs
have become unhinged.
I never
should’ve
let you in,
but this place
wouldn’t be home
without you.
Now,
it never will be again.
I am left
with a bouquet of Almost Maybes,
leaving flowers on the doorstep
of everything
that might have been.
© Gina Clingan 2020
