Love in the Margins

Your words are maps I trace with fingertips,

A braille of longing pressed to trembling lips.

No face, no form—just verses wrapped in ink,

Yet in each curve, a universe takes shape.

You bloom in pauses between typed replies,

A garden sown in midnight’s silent sighs.

Your laughter hums in consonants unspoken,

A ghost of sound where longing has awoken.

They say love’s built on glances, touch, or sighs—

But ours is spun from semicolon eyes;

From metaphors that pierce like unseen stars,

And paragraphs where ache bleeds through the scars.

So let the world crave flesh, demand a view—

I’ll love the soul your syllables break through.