This is no poem. Perhaps a soliloquy or transcript of what’s in my head. To be poetic right now would be to mask the thoughts that crumble in my bed. No. This is no poem. It’s a plea. An ask. An absolute requirement. A condition of conditions. A demand without the threat … a realisation that maybe this book is misread. Like the Diary found underneath the tree, our relationship was not meant. For you.
Sorry, that was from me.