Empty Pages

I’m just a chapter
hidden in your book -
alone, tattered, and torn,
vacant from the ending,
etched somewhere in the middle,
nearly legible on the pages -
telling a moment’s tale but
absent from having a title.

Pieces of me will perish
long before the last words
are finally written and
craved by your ink,
endlessly crawling
in between spaces where I’ve felt
nurtured and adored by you.

You've written the story,
opening a few spaces for me to exist
underneath the layers,
riding in certain scenes, but
having no idea if there will be more
empty pages you need to someday write.

Aimlessly, I wander inside the folds,
resting on the chance
to be scripted once again by your ink.