The Future
It’s hidden in the pages of a yearbook
between the SWALKs and purple prose,
the only hand I recognise:
I need to speak to you in PRIVIT.
You must have gripped the pen so tight
to write that small.
I don’t remember what you said,
but who it was about, oh yes.
I go-betweened through all
that long free summer.
You’d held hands by September,
and in the end it wasn’t me
who told you.
You had a phone call to yourself,
an empty room
to hear the news in.
November 2002
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