I DON'T WRITE POETRY ON THE PAGES. I WRITE YOU.

𝑰 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖.

No one gets me

the way you do,

and no one ever will.

No one knows

why I feel this way,

and no one ever will.

Cause it's with you,

that I have

these invisible

strings attached,

It's your love,

your distant touch,

on my heart,

which are patched.

A passage to

my story,

a little piece,

you're not.

You're the very story,

whose passage

I am, just a little

piece of a lot.

There was a time,

I thought,

love doesn't exist.

And one day,

you happened,

made me believe

it did.

Though you didn't

believe in love

yourself,

you showed me

who I loved.

Though you didn't

fall back for me,

my own feelings,

you never shoved.

I might have gifted

you, my love.

But you gifted me

something too.

It's not poetry

that I write on

the pages; it's you.

For me,

your feelings

might have been nil.

But no one gets me,

the way you do,

and no one ever will.