I did the thing where I wrote you a poem, but couldn’t detach myself enough to make it good. Good for me, getting in the way. So I did the thing where I wrote you a poem and made it look like notes in a binder that doesn’t open after school.
The Google doc title would be “for you,” the scraps that I couldn’t smooth together with shaking hands announced with Roman numerals. How romantic of me.
I don’t know if you would understand it. I don’t know if you would fake it. It’s the effort that I am certain you would exert while trying that counts.
Maybe my next poem will be on your arm. ♦