I’ve stood at the edge
of so many beginnings—
just close enough to taste them,
never close enough to stay.
The door always slightly ajar,
never open.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

People call me potential,
but never presence.
A promise, not a person.
Their faith feels like fog—
thin and disappearing
the moment I reach for it.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I speak like I know who I am,
but the echo doesn’t agree.
My words crumble in my mouth
before they ever build meaning.
Even my hope sounds rehearsed.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I dream in color,
but live in grayscale.
My hands stretch forward
but always fall short—
of the vision,
of the version
of me I thought I’d be by now.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

So I write.
I bleed ink and silence
trying to draw a shape
that feels like truth.
And maybe one day,
I’ll look back
and see I was becoming all along.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.