I know I shouldn’t feel jealous
of the ones who came before.
I’m not naive.
I know you’ve held others in your arms
and called it home.
I know you’ve dreamed of futures
with people who did not have my name.
I know you’ve whispered those sacred words to others
and meant them
with the version of your heart
you had at the time.
I know you have,
and so have I.
So maybe it isn’t fair
for me to ache over a story
I wasn’t there to read,
over chapters that were already written
before my hand ever found yours.
Maybe I should only be grateful,
because somehow
every wrong turn,
every almost,
every love that could have been
but never fully was,
still led us here.
To this page.
To this beginning.
To this new chapter
with our names written as the title,
like it had been waiting for us to arrive
this whole time.
And maybe that’s the part
I have to learn how to love:
that the tragedies before us
were not proof that love failed,
but proof that the story wasn’t finished.
Every broken heart
was only a bookmark.
Every goodbye
was only the plot moving forward.
Every person we thought we might keep
was only a sentence that had to end
so this one could begin.
And if I cannot be your first,
then let me be your last.
Your last first kiss.
Your last first night
with a trembling body beside someone new.
Your last promise of forever
leaving your lungs.
If there is one thing I get to claim
as only mine,
let it be this:
let me be your true love.
Let me be the final destination
after a long journey of disappointment.
Let me be your magnum opus
in the story of your life.
Let me be your co-author
in every chapter that comes next,
until the final page closes
on a saga so beautiful
it makes people weep
for generations to come.