I have always been a maybe even to those I called my certainty. A passing thought, a name written in pencil, easy to erase when seasons change. To the ones I placed upon my list of firsts, I remained an afterthought, a plus one added when needed, subtracted when not. Even my highest hopes hold me as a fragment, not a whole, a collane lost in the seam of something almost complete. I whispered, this is life, this shifting, fleeting kind of love yet still, my foolish heart refuses logic, and bleeds quietly for the place it never had.