The First Poem I Wrote wasn't About You

The first poem I wrote wasn't about you,
yet it was always about you.
Perhaps it still lies lost somewhere in my notes,
Leaving the pages guessing to whom it might be dedicated.
It had all possible punctuations but lacked a full stop because some stories are meant to never end.

Sometimes, my fingers tangled among the different alphabets on the keyboard, attempting to weave you into words.
Not penned with your name or love declared aloud,
but a silent confession always lingered hidden between words and spaces.

Unspoken stories unfolded where words withdrew,
Creating a narrative that made much more sense than the lines ever could.
I struggled to rhyme the tunes,
perhaps because our story was carved on the edges.

When I took to paper and made the ink dance upon it,
I could possibly write everything my heart had read,
everything your eyes spoke.
Between metaphors and similes,
I spun the secrets we both hid from ourselves.

Every stanza was a canvas painted in subtle hues,
lines written for you but not about you.
Yet,
Together they crafted an art.
An art that I hide from the world,
As I fear unfolding some stories destined to remain covered.

The unwritten spaces and untold lines
Held captive a love that couldn't eternally shine.
My first poem's legacy wasn't confined to ink and rhyme
Because even the spaces between the two words held emotions.
But I couldn't complete the poem because it somehow looked beautiful that way – incomplete literally but complete emotionally.

The first poem I wrote wasn't about you, it's true, but it carried the whispers of our story, known to just a few.