My first reaction is to run.
There is no fight. But I can fly.
For this, I am sorry.
You built boxing rings
out of test results. Bowed
gracefully before each match.
Showed your opponent no mercy –
but made sure each hit was clean.
Me? I took a box of matches
to the mats the morning I woke
to permanent emptiness. I made the hospital
dance in gasolined blue/orange flames against
the grayest November sky ever etched
from Eden’s rough draft.
Hey God – you fucking missing a blueprint?!
I took your trophies out of the case
& bet it all on forgiveness.
Almost doesn’t count.
Almost is so close to complete.
Almost – is fucked.
Like – you almost had it beat a third time.
Like – you almost found happiness.
Like you almost won.
Like you almost knew how much you were loved.
Like we almost made it clear.
Like you almost stood a chance.
Like it was almost alright.
Like I almost said goodbye.
Like I’ll almost see you tomorrow.
Like it almost doesn’t hurt.
Like you are almost still here.