I always wonder what we could've been. Perhaps I wouldn't be writing about you at three in the morning and instead, you'd be wrapping your arms around my waist and holding me through the night. You'd whisper in my ears that I am all yours and you are all mine – as I trace galaxies in the palms of your hands – until we end up dreaming of the vast unknown.

I'm delusional for hopelessly clinging on to our uncertainty because that's all we've ever been, all we'll ultimately be and all we'll ever amount to: an endless list of almosts. Maybe we were too much and never enough all at once, maybe I was too close yet too far, maybe the fire you ignited within me was too strong, and you were too weak to keep that flame alive, or god, maybe the cosmos, the stars, and whatever supernatural forces reigning above us just weren't in our **** favor.

*With that being said, my heart is heavy with all the moments I replay over and over, and the words left unsaid. My heart aches for every version of reality that never gave us a chance.