They say the saddest word in the world is almost.
Almost happy. Almost healthy. Almost alive. Almost loved.

It stretches across the world and highlights the disappointment in a sigh, murmurs the sound of something being broken, so it's almost bearable.
It leaves you with a dissolving spine instead of a snapping one, gentle tears instead of a torrent.
Almost. Close. Just about.

It's the moral without the meaning, the action without the spirit.
It's crossing my heart with crossed fingers, and hoping to die with a crossed tongue.
It's wrestling with the truth laced on my lips and almost winning.
Almost convincing myself that you still care for me.
Almost convincing myself that my life will still be beautiful when I rip you out of it.
Almost sleeping dreamless nights, almost waking with steady palms.

It's almost reclaiming my soul from someone's almost careful hands and almost not crying when my memory trips over you.
It's almost being invited out before being dismissed as a passing thought.
It's almost feeling whole and almost persuading myself that this is for the best.
It's almost knowing why the hell I am doing this and almost disregarding the secondhand bruise.
It's almost putting the car in drive and getting on the highway.
It's almost choosing to die almost with you rather than choosing to live without.

The saddest word in the world leaves the most profound echo when it's done.
It's the emptiness I'll sing for the rest of my life.
It's the vacancy I'll write every night--when I'm not almost, but completely, alone.