You know, I almost called the other night.
Almost.
I’d like to think that
you would’ve almost picked up,
and I would’ve almost said something.
It’s a good thing I’ve almost lost your number;
I could get lonely someday
and forget that you almost wanted to stay.
I forget a lot nowadays.
I almost called the other night, you know.
But I’ve learned that “almost”
only counts in “I love you’s”
and “goodbye’s”.
Maybe I’ll almost sleep tonight.
It’s strange that I keep dreaming
about the night we walked around the city.
I always end up on the park bench
by your house,
waiting.
I’ve almost stopped wishing you’d show up.

Orange hair on a hard mattress.
You smelt of lavender and gin
and I knew in some adverse way
that I was responsible for both
and from it I took small pleasures
all of them equally as perverse
and unjustified.

It's all the motions of unrequited love;
except it's as far from unrequited as it could be
and I'm happy about that.

A man once told me that someday I might be happy
that I didn't get the things I so strongly yearned for.

He said might, but he did not emphasize it.