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.
