Well, here we are,

Me writing,

You reading,

In a sort of virtual correspondence


And I murmur dimlit apologies

For the way my words

Are stepping on your toes,

And you whisper back that it’s alright,

Because you don’t really like poetry anyway:

I was merely the kid in the back of the room

Who looked lonely,

When you happened to be standing there,

Twirling one lock of hair around a finger

That now scans these lines,

Bemused at my tongue-tied audacity,

While I excuse my two iambic feet.


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