by Sara Grant

You searched my expression

As you reached towards me,

Wounded.

You managed to mouth, “I forgive you.”

And something else, and something else.

Ten and a half months

Of plain speaking pages,

From tepid to twisted

And painfully optimistic,

Sat, sunken in your palm.

Your fingers had followed the flow

Of my biro,

Swerving

Towards the full stop

On our friendship.

I’d caught you at it.

And you’d caught me out.

Now nothing could be done

To undo what I’d said

In the notebook beside my bed.

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