WHO KNOWS, WE ARE SOMEONE'S DRAFT
Who knows,
perhaps we're not the final story,
just paragraphs crossed out by fate,
sentences rewritten at midnight,
and dreams left in the margins.
Maybe the universe
is still searching for the right words,
holding us between
a "not yet" and a "becoming."
I have met versions of myself
that no longer exist—
the boy who feared every goodbye,
the dreamer who trusted every promise,
the stranger staring back
from old photographs.
Who knows,
maybe every heartbreak
was an edit,
every mistake
a correction,
every goodbye
a page being turned.
And maybe somewhere,
in a reality we cannot touch,
there exists a better draft of us—
a little braver,
a little kinder,
a little less afraid of tomorrow.
But what if perfection
was never the goal?
What if the beauty lies
in the unfinished lines,
the smudged ink,
the words we still struggle to write?
So here I am,
half poem,
half possibility,
carrying chapters still unwritten.
And if I am someone's draft,
then let me remain a work in progress—
for even unfinished stories
have the power
to change a reader forever.