Maybe, Somehow
On the half-finished things — and the small, stubborn root that says *maybe still.*
There’s a particular grief reserved for the things that were almost. The ones that didn’t quite. This poem is for them — and for the part underneath that won’t quite let them go.
Half of something great
Almost there
Maybe if I tried harder
Maybe if I cared
This too shall pass
As they always say
Maybe if time stopped
Maybe if I had stayed
For if only I had nurtured
The things I know now
Maybe it’d be different
Maybe, somehow
Yet there’s still a root
And it could grow with time
Maybe it still can
Maybe it’ll be just fine
The root is the whole poem. Maybe it still can. Most of the almost things in life aren’t actually closed; they’re just paused. Some of them are waiting for you to come back.
— JTC