Looking the notes over again,

Written back and forth

In awkward scrawl and thin cursive.

Conversations I started, knowing

They would lead to

tearing the hair out of my scalp,

metaphorically.

You kind of, sort of plagiarist.

Even though you could write that

I know you, you wouldn't.

What do you owe me

After years of these letters?

One letter from summer camp,

A twirl at the end-of-year dance,

A few sincere thoughts, poems written in confusion

And too many apologies.

I won't ask that of you

For I still hate to see you hurt.

---

Note- I have forms for three poetry contests. I'm definitely going to sendthis to one of them. I'm choosing between the one the library's offering, and the one my mentor sent me.