Maybe that’s the hardest word
I know.
Maybe you loved me.
Maybe you didn’t.
Maybe things would’ve worked
if the timing was different,
if we were different,
if life had been kinder.
Maybe.
It’s a word
with no ending.
A hallway
that never reaches a door.
And I’ve spent years there.
Walking back and forth
through old conversations,
old mistakes,
old versions of events
trying to find an answer
hidden somewhere
inside the wreckage.
But maybe
isn’t an answer.
Maybe
is the place we go
when the truth hurts too much.
The place between acceptance
and denial.
The place where hope
goes when it doesn’t know
how to die.
And I’m tired
of carrying it.
Tired of giving possibilities
more power
than reality.
Because reality is this—
some things happened.
Some things ended.
Some people left
without explaining why.
And no amount of maybe
will change it.
So tonight
I’m setting it down.
Not because I understand.
Not because I’m over it.
But because uncertainty
is a heavy thing
to drag through life.
And I’ve carried it
long enough.
Maybe that’s enough.
Maybe—
for once—
I don’t need to know.
Through the Fog 