He can only write to her in margins,
scribbled notes
in books he thinks she might read,
poems inscribed between paragraphs,
sweet nothings cut off by a heavily-texted page.
He sits and composes and doodles,
dreaming of the day she’ll find them
and learn how he feels.
He loves her at every remove,
waiting for her to see,
never considering the possibility
that she already has. . .
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