The Alchemy of Almost

Sometimes, the world cracks open

just enough to slip through:

A sunset that doesn’t just set

but peels the day away like ripe fruit,

and you, while walking home,

are suddenly drenched in wonder,

the air thick with petrichor

that holy scent of rain

on thirsty pavement.

Or the way a stranger’s laugh

not yours, not yet

catches you mid-step,

weaving your ribs into a bridge.

Listen.

A baby’s giggle is the universe

relearning its name.

And you? You are the scribe

etching this joy into the dust

of your own forgotten miracles.

The Resistance

That time you turned away from the kiss

not for lack of want,

but because its tenderness

threatened to rewrite

the story of your skin.

That time you fled from the hand

reaching for yours in the dark,

terrified its warmth might become

a language you’d have to unlearn.

Memory of resistance:

you, a lighthouse

with its light turned inward,

casting shadows where

there should have been welcome.

The Argument at the Threshold

Fear lounges at your table,

sharpening its knives with your doubts.

Remember how love left?

its purrs, dragging the blade across the woodgrain.

Remember how you bled?

Doubt leans in, pours you tea

with hands that tremble in time

with your own.

What if it happens again?

What if you’re not the kind of thing

that gets to stay?

Regret

slams its fist down,

sends the teacup rattling,

claims its hollow victory:

You see? This is why

you sleep alone.

This is why you

swallow your words like broken glass.

I win.

But Hope

Hope has been sitting cross-legged

in the corner, humming.

Now it rises, brushes off its knees,

and says, so softly:

Regret is always

powerless.

It only knows

what was.

I know what

could be.

And Love ?

Love doesn’t knock.

It waltzes in,

tracking wildflowers and mud

across your spotless hesitation.

Since when did you become

a museum of almosts? it asks,

throwing every window wide.

Let me in,

if only to marvel

at the way the dust dances

in this sudden, golden light.

The Almost’s & the In-Between’s

And oh the almosts.

The kiss that missed your lips

but landed on your pulse,

leaving a watermark.

The job you didn’t get,

but the stranger in the waiting room

who pressed a poem into your palm,

its edges soft as well-worn linen.

The love that didn’t stay

but left the door ajar,

so you could finally see

your own silhouette

standing in the threshold,

patient as dawn.

Here’s the alchemy:

Even grief is a kind of folding.

You are origami

creased, yes, but becoming

something breathtaking.

The same hands that tore you

will smooth your edges

into wings.

The Reckoning & the Rising

Let the moment unspool like silk.

Let joy be the thief

who steals your silence

and leaves you laughing

in the wreckage.

Let sorrow be the gardener

tending the soil of your becoming.

One day, the sun will rise

without your eyes to name it.

So today, drink the light.

Breathe the sky.

Say thank you

with your whole, trembling mouth.

Plant your grief in the earth.

Water it with the tears

you’ve been saving

for a "better" time.

Wait.

See what blossoms.

Doc Rain