The Boy Who Wrote Me Poems: Chapter 3

Between The Lines

 It became our language.

Each morning, a folded page would appear on my locker. Each night, I’d leave mine beneath the second stairwell, behind the loose panel no one else noticed.

We didn’t speak. Didn’t text.
But our words—our words were heavy with everything unspoken.

His latest one read:

“I wonder if your skin
tastes like every metaphor
I haven’t dared write yet.”

My breath hitched.

There was a kind of power in it. A dangerous kind. Because he wasn’t touching me. And still, I felt undone.

So I wrote:

“My body’s an unfinished stanza.
Come… finish it.”

The next day, he cornered me in the library.
Between shelves of forgotten books and poetry anthologies, he whispered the first word I’d ever heard from his mouth.

“Come.”

And I did.

Not in the way I expected.
Not yet.

But I followed.

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