Writers 
We met where love was not allowed,
beneath a sky that knew our names
but refused to bless them.
You were the wrong person
at the right moment,
and I was the kind of foolish
who mistook a warning
for an invitation.
They said your name
like a boundary.
I whispered it
like a prayer.
There were rules between us
old as silence,
strong as locked doors.
But every time you looked at me,
the walls seemed to forget
why they were built.
We never promised forever.
Forever was too dangerous a word
for something already forbidden.
So we collected moments instead:
a glance held too long,
a conversation that should have ended,
two hearts pretending
they weren't running toward each other.
Maybe that is what made it beautiful
that we knew it could not last
and loved it anyway.
You were the chapter
I was never supposed to write,
the secret folded between pages,
the sentence I kept rereading
even after I knew the ending.
And if someday
we become strangers again,
I hope you remember this:
There was a version of us
that existed beyond permission,
beyond judgment,
beyond every reason we were told
to stay apart.
It lived quietly
between your heartbeat and mine.
And perhaps
that is all forbidden love ever gets
a beautiful beginning,
an impossible middle,
and an ending
we were never allowed to choose.
