almost doesn’t count

you were decaf coffee
on a morning I needed a jolt of caffeine
you seemed close enough to normal,
and I didn’t realize the difference until I felt it.

you were a shot of heroin to the vein
of an addict who had been clean ten years
you were the devastation
of that one final high.

you were a blazing campfire,
the smell of the smoke invading
skin, clothes, hair, breath
and when the flames died you lingered,
the scent pervasive and stale.

you were my car key
when I needed to unlock my house
the idea should have been right enough,
but it was not at all what I needed.

you were a walk in the woods
during a thunderstorm
I felt sheltered and yet
I was in danger being near you.

you were fireworks
sparkling in a black ink sky
waking me up from deep sleep
fun but explosive, and always poorly timed.

you were a teacher, turning to face the class
just at the moment when
a note passed from one hand to another
smiles all around, but the laughter is forced.

you were almost.
almost right.
almost normal.
almost okay.
almost doesn’t count.


One comment

  1. Miriam · November 23, 2015

    Love your writing!


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