I wrote a while ago about the time I put a poem under the pillow of a girl I liked.
I ended the story with me bottling the situation when she told me that she’d hoped the poem was from me.
Well, the truth is I denied writing the poem but later that evening we went for a walk and I said that even though I had not written the poem, I wish I had done.
We kissed. Under a blossoming tree, on a hot summer’s day. So long, long ago.