Unread

He can’t see me.

Here I am—bare, vulnerable,

Standing in front of him, open like a book.

I’ve turned to chapter 36, page 13,140-

That’s how many pages my life has written so far.

Yet, he still can’t see me.

Maybe he’s dog-eared this moment,

Marking it for a later read,

A time when he’s ready to sit with the story.

Maybe he avoids past chapters,

Not wanting to face the weight of my words.

Or maybe he dreams of adding himself to my pages,

Writing his name beside mine

In some kind of collaboration.

But still, he doesn’t see it.

I see it, clear as a summer morning,

Maybe it’s my fantasy,

Maybe it’s just me, hoping for what could be.

I’ve read his book—every chapter, every word.

I know his story like my favorite song,

Played over and over until the melody feels like mine.

His memories have become my memories,

His struggles, his triumphs—I’ve been there,

Even if only in spirit.

Maybe he’s illiterate when it comes to the language of us,

And pride keeps him from admitting it.

Or maybe he’s afraid to dive into my depths,

Not knowing if he’ll swim or sink.

But my book isn’t bound by time.

Neither is his.

So why not read what’s written,

Take the pen in hand,

And rewrite the ending—together?

Because I’m worth being seen.

I’m worth being understood.

I’m the story worth reading,

Cover to cover.