Almost, Enough

I remind you of a time, 

running through the hills and dips 

of the park—past.

The grass still wet, the earth soft 

enough 

to forgive your steps.

Hesitating over the bridge, as I once did,

fingers grazing over the wooden railing.

Knowing once you cross it 

something will already be different. 

Sitting in the sun

that feeling arises again, 

settling into every vessel of your body.

Every muscle tightening and loosening all at once,

almost 

embracing the encapsulation 

of how you once felt, 

of how you feel.

There is a feeling 

only ever known when you breathed their air—

where their presence altered your own.

Good or bad, 

you felt a difference—it was 

enough,

and that’s all that mattered. 

There is a certain smell in the air

on those cold mornings

that hold the reminisce of Alaska.

Or during the mornings of February,

when time moved slower—or was it faster— 

and longing 

almost 

felt reasonable. 

But then you let go,

of what you called this feeling. 

Realizing that the moment you named it, you began to shrink it. 

Then, in trying to understand it,

you placed it at a distance. Far 

enough 

to observe.

But too far to feel. 

Love is too irrational to be felt rationally. 

Love is too specific—

to be tied to a breath,

a month, 

a realization,

a hesitation on a bridge—

It’s breadth turns into a poem

that left everything

almost 

unfinished. But at the same time, more than 

enough.