Marginalia

I don't think I fell in love.

I think someone

started writing

in the margins of my life.

At first,

it was only little things.

A smile

beside an ordinary Tuesday.

A note of laughter

tucked between appointments.

The smell of rain

underlined twice,

simply because you enjoyed it.

Then the handwriting

grew bolder.

Coffee became

something worth sharing.

Silence

became somewhere to rest.

The future,

once written

in rigid black ink,

began accepting

your amendments.

Now I leaf back

through older chapters,

and there are entire pages

I scarcely recognise.

Not because they are wrong.

Only because

they were written

before the author

discovered your name.

If anyone asks

what changed,

I won't tell them

I met the love of my life.

I'll simply say

the universe

finally found

a better editor.