Written on an envelope

Sometimes there is a shadow on my wall,
of my eyelashes
and I remember yours,
said to be so
similar to mine.

Inside the envelope is the truth
which circulates in stale air
it's all my fault, all my fault,
falling quickly in my mind,

a dropped penny.
But it dropped too late, after
I'd confessed hotly into his trap.

Although perhaps he reads my
words now,

in the hourglass,

this is him,
a used self I now try to hold
above the crowd.
I imagine to lie in wait.

It's only a single lesson. We have
French next
and I have to skip lunch. I'm sorry.
I'm
so sorry: It's just me.