The Echo of Almost

 

We all carry ghosts—the dreams that almost happened, the love that nearly stayed, the words we almost spoke. This poem is for every "almost" that lingers like a shadow, reminding us of what could have been… and what still might be.

The Echo of Almost

It lingers in the hollow halls,
A whisper soft along the walls.
Not quite a song, not quite a scream—
The shadowed edge of every dream.

Almost touched, but never held,
A story paused, a fate dispelled.
A door half-open, then shut tight,
A flicker lost to restless night.

Almost love, a fleeting spark—
A name that glowed, then slipped into the dark.
Eyes that met but didn't stay,
Hands that trembled, pulled away.

Almost words upon my tongue,
A truth unsaid, a bell un-rung.
The silence hums a ghostly tune,
A promise drowned beneath the moon.

Almost life—the paths not walked,
The plans erased, the dreams that balked.
Each "almost" leaves a quiet scar,
A constellation dim and far.

Almost mornings soft and gold,
A future warm enough to hold my hands.
Coffee cups and second chances,
Half-remembered backward glances.

Almost nights beneath the sky,
Where hope felt close enough to try.
Stars that whispered maybe so,
Until the dawn said never go.

Almost all letters are never sent,
Feelings folded, backs unbent.
Ink that dried on unspeaking lips,
Ships that brushed but did not kiss.

Almost courageous—almost brave.
Standing right beside the wave.
One step more toward the vast unknown…
Yet fear said, Turn around. Go home.

Almost versions of myself,
Still sitting somewhere on a shelf—
The dreamer, dancer, fearless one,
The battles lost before begun.

Almost all callings are never voiced,
The roads ignored, the risks unchosen.
The prayers I whispered, almost said,
The hopes I buried, half-alive instead.

Almost victories left undone,
Fights abandoned halfway won.
Crowns that hovered overhead,
Too heavy for the heart I bred.

And still they circle, near yet far,
Orbiting like fallen stars.
Not enough to fade to dust,
Too much to leave without their trust.

They haunt me still, these near-missed things—
Like phantom birds with broken wings.
They press, they pull, they won't let rest—
The echo is almost in my chest.

But maybe almost is not the end—
Just space where broken pieces mend.
A quiet room where futures wait,
Where 'not-yet' doesn't mean 'too late'.

Maybe the ache is not a curse,
But prove a better dream is first.
Maybe the echo is the start—
A trembling pulse inside the heart.

For every almost lost to night,
There waits a dawn to birth new light.
And all that could have been, someday
May you have the courage to stay.