Chapter Text
The piece of paper is ripped off. Coarse ridges line its edges as if the writer of it had written it in confidence, but couldn't bear to look at it afterwards. Its parchment had a brown tint to it, different than the white of the last one, and was oddly folded in the corners, but mostly left untouched, possibly forgotten. Handwriting went from scrawled and desperate, to neat, from the beginning to end of the poem. It wasn't folded up this time, just a page of paper with mysterious text on it, lying next to a left-open book.
i'm sorry, i lied.
come back
come, listen to my laments
hold my apologies in your hands
kiss them cold and kind
or better—
come and knock me down
cut through my rib as i sliced through yours
hear no apology, no sob, no lament
hear nothing at all
please, just come back