I used to be the one they wrote about—
the boys who almost touched, the stolen glance.
I knew the tropes. I lived inside the doubt.
I was the subtext begging for a chance.
But now the shippers are fifteen years old.
They speak in tags I do not understand.
The ships have sailed. The canons have been sold
to younger hands. I'm no one's contraband.
I scroll past edits made for other eyes.
The characters are younger every year.
The love I longed for now mass-multiplies
in formats I don't recognize from here.
I aged out of the fantasy, it seems.
They still write us. Just not in my dreams.