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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