I said I’d take it slow—
but my heart never learned pacing.
It jumps ahead,
writes your name in the margins
before I’ve even turned the page.

You’re not the loud kind of beautiful—
you’re the quiet type,
the “wait, who’s that?”
the kind that walks past
and leaves my chest buzzing like a cheap speaker
turned all the way up
on a love song I wasn’t ready for.

I try not to stare.
So I listen instead.
To your voice,
your laugh,
your "random disappearance thingy,"
like it’s Morse code
for maybe, maybe not.

You don’t know it,
but I write about you in lowercase
because you feel gentle.
Like a song I play at night
and pretend doesn’t mean anything.

I don’t need a fairytale.
I just want a chance.
To be someone you look at
like I’m not just another friend
in the blurry background of your life.

And if not—
well.
At least you’ll always live here,
between the lines,
in poems I’ll pretend aren’t about you.