Your cursive
with the slight slant
curved
at the right places
in the notes you wrote
stacking them
in neat rows
alone
like it was your love story
you wished to publish one day;

wasn't a bunch of chapters
for the story
they thought
you were writing.

You were plotting ways
to destroy
something that looked readymade
something you wished was imperfect
something chaotic
you could arrange
with your bare hands
standing by her side.

____

©VioletEden