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I mapped out every moment,
With commas and with cues,
A life of small amendments,
That I could gently use—
But maps are only guesses
When weather intervenes,
And now I’m off the margins
Of what I thought things mean.
I practiced all my answers
In mirrors made of doubt,
The clever little exits
I’d choreographed to route
Around the tender places,
Around the truth’s expense—
It worked in most occasions.
Tonight’s the rare exception.
We were almost exactly,
Nearly precisely right,
The kind of near-perfection
That only fails by sight.
We missed it by a heartbeat,
By syllable, by glance—
We didn’t quite say “stay with me,”
We almost said “romance.”
You spoke in careful circles,
Like teacups on display,
I drank between the pauses
To hear what words wouldn’t say—
Your silence was a sentence
You hoped I’d misinterpret,
But I have read the footnotes
Of every love I’ve kept.
You listen like a courtroom
Where truth is under oath,
Where every word I stumble on
Becomes the final growth
Of something I was hiding
From you and from myself—
You call it self-protection.
I call it lower self.
We were almost exactly,
Symmetry out of tune,
Like clocks that strike together
But not the selfsame noon.
We waltzed around the wording,
We edited the chance—
We didn’t quite say “stay with me,”
We almost said “romance.”
I could have been less measured,
Less graceful in retreat,
I might have tipped the table
Instead of moved my seat—
Confession is a muscle
That weakens when it’s spared,
And I have kept mine elegant
Instead of fully bared.
I could have risked the chaos,
The clumsy, honest plea,
Instead of playing diplomat
With what you mean to me.
I kept my voice conversational
When thunder would suffice—
I offered you my reasoning
When I should have offered my life.
We were almost exactly,
A harmony half-sung,
The lyric that dissolves before
The final note is rung.
We trimmed away the urgency,
We polished every stance—
We didn’t quite say “stay with me,”
We almost said “romance.”
So here’s my late admission,
Unfootnoted, unwise:
I loved you in the margins
Between your truths and lies.
Not safely. Not politely.
Not metaphorically.
But vividly and daily
And devastatingly.
Then let me be less brilliant
And far more inaccurate—
Let language fail spectacularly,
Let timing discontract.
If love is imprecise enough
It might become our chance—
We’ll stop rehearsing “almost”
And finally choose romance.
Not almost exactly,
But recklessly askew,
With messy declarations
And points we can’t construe—
We’ll miss the old perfection,
We’ll break the old advance—
We’ll finally say “stay with me,”
And never say “romance.”