maybe i was meant to breathe,
not bloom,
to walk through life,
but not fill a room.
perhaps i’m the verse
in someone’s song,
but never the name
they hum for long.
maybe i’m meant
to write of love,
to craft the pain
that others speak of.
to pen the warmth
i’ll never hold,
and dress my wounds
in ink and gold.
i’m the glance,
not the gaze that stays,
the lost refrain
in better days.
the choice they weigh
but never take,
the dream they leave
before they wake.
i am the “almost”,
the “could’ve been”
a whispered story
lost in wind.
