I kept writing her, again and again, until the page began to look like love

I kept writing, like the page remembered her better than I did, like every line was a hand reaching for her in the dark. Even when I called it fiction, it wasn’t. Each poem a quiet unveiling, not of who she was, but of how she felt. My poetry was never just words, it was the canvas where I kept painting her, again and again, until the page began to look like love.

–aaditya