I wait in the pause

between your sentences,

where I am never the subject,

only the small word you remember

after the silence falls.

You say you forgot, you say sorry,

and I nod like it’s a habit,

like patience is my purpose,

like love means

being the silence behind the voice.

Your plans unfold

in pretty font, centered on the page,

and I am the note scribbled

in the margins.

Ink smudged,

barely legible.

I’ve learned how to take up

less space in your day,

how to smile while standing

behind everything that matters more.

I’m always second place

in a race I never chose to run.

I’m almost enough for you,

but almost never wins.

Still, I stay,

because sometimes

you turn to me

like I’m what makes you smile,

and those moments

are heavy enough

to keep me tethered.