Always Almost
This piece is inspired by a poem of a friend, Amy Steinhauser, through unburied_eulogies (Instagram). She often moves me so much:
~~~
“The first time someone wanted
me without translating me,
I understood
why every other love
had felt like being kissed
through glass”.
~~~
I am always almost trying to write what I feel in my heart, not quite succeeding, and that’s okay by me. I hope that it’s almost fully okay with you. The distance. The always almost saying what cannot be held in any longer. I am always, almost, some mad poet.
The strong visual of ‘being kissed through glass’, almost punched me in the gut. My mind, my heart raced through memory, this time, right here, and now, and at 67, the one dream still left in me, for a future, which is to love someone so madly, a love where ‘almosts’ do not exist. Yes, to love madly, to kiss wholeheartedly. Lips on lips. Not ‘through glass’.
No, not ‘through glass’, not through a screen, not through a phone, not through fog, not through a veil of ‘almosts’. Almost important enough, almost allowed in, almost chosen. Almost soon.
Why does love is always almost loss, fear, avoidance, anxiety, always almost too rough on the heart, as life itself? As truth, as memory, as skins.
Always almost membranes, borders, lines drawn in sand.
Almost always relying more on distance. On lengths of arms. Rather than on intimacy. Everything is always almost unbearable. Truly. For me.
Why is love almost dead, always almost alive. Almost never coming to full term. Almost never fully realized?
Love, is always almost arriving. Almost always as bread crumbs. Then always almost on the verge of getting up, on the verge of leaving, breaking.
Always almost falling from grace, always failing.
Love, almost always, more concerned with preserving, protecting, hurling walls against something. Someone.
And almost always, ’Acts of Losing’ is my main love language. Or almost, so frequently and reminiscently spoken.
Almost always, one is wholeheartedly naked, the other, almost fully clothed.
Almost always vulnerable, the other almost always in control of vulnerability, almost the capturer of false freedom.
Almost always, one step forward, one step back.
Today I write of ‘almosts’, because they are constant, they are too obnoxious to ignore.
Almost love, almost always too weak, almost too strong, almost separation. Almost always on edges.
Are ‘almosts’ all we have?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Thank you for visiting with me here, for listening and reading WHAT IS BETWEEN US, a reader-supported column. To receive new posts directly in your email box please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
🤎🤍🖤
Orly
The poem here by Amy and your reactions and reflections stirred by it, held me. Rocked me. Made me feel vulnerable. Had me in its grasp almost immediately. No let’s say I was Immediately overtaken. ‘Almost’ translates in my mind as ‘non-commitment. Of holding back and leaving a way out of whatever it is. Maybe it’s also ‘caution’. I don’t know. I’ve been saying that a lot, things having happened that confuse the hell out of me. I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge whatever kick in my heart and soul that I get. I’m wondering why there exists an ‘almost’ in nearly every good thing I could have had happen to me and then it didn’t. Am I almost alive? It feels like it some days. And day in and day out, here is the thing, I know there are people like you, a kindred at the very deepest level of someone I’ve never met, and being of the same age, that matters not even a tiny fraction to me, it simply means we’ve lived through the same global history from different places, we’ve lived in a world prior to this one, a world that was not connected upon electronics or through digital connections. We were out there living our lives, we remember certain events and certain situations, the kinds of events that we hope is still remembered and honored well into the future. All that to say it is a comfort to find you here doing what you are compelled to do because it is who you are. You are not ever ‘an almost Orly’ nor am I an ‘almost Susie’ that is all the matters. Along with every other person that crosses this particular path.
Ok. Just woke up. Got my phone and then—this. Your words are the first words of my day.
This reflection leaves me breathless. I feel a story buried inside it, a story buried in you. I feel pain and an emptiness. You’ve opened a door inside yourself —ever so slightly— to let your heart out. To release some grief perhaps. To get some fresh air. To let your body say what it needs to say, but is perhaps afraid to say. Your title, “Always Almost,” is the feeling I get from the writing—your writing, like kissing through glass, is your expressing yourself with a hand held over your mouth. Almost saying what you want to say. I want to remove your hand so you can breathe. So you can scream.