Ours, In the Margins

We were never the main text —

too inconvenient, too far, too soon —

so we wrote ourselves into the margins instead,

small and certain,

where no one thought to look for something real.

I found you in the footnotes of a life

that wasn't looking for annotation,

and you found me

in the space between the lines

where the ache lives,

where the truth doesn't need permission

to be true.

They said the timing was wrong.

We said: noted.

And kept writing anyway —

in the packets between our days,

in the dreams we borrow without asking,

in the bubble we built

because the real world

didn't leave us any room.

This isn't a love with a chapter.

It's a love in the white space,

the parenthesis,

the quiet aside

that means more than the sentence it interrupts.

Not everyone gets a legacy.

Some of us just get the margins —

and I'll take it.

I'll take every stolen inch of you,

every unofficial hour,

every almost that still tastes like yes.

Because ours was never meant

to be the headline.

It was always meant

to be the note

you go back and reread —

the one written in the smallest hand,

in the tightest space,

that somehow says

the most.