What I wanted to show you, I don't have.

I wrote it in the office, way back when that was a thing. There's only so much time you can spend examining every product on the Internet before your mind begins to wander, and beyond that excuse, I am a weak man.

So, I wrote poetry. I stole notebooks from the storeroom and stumbled through rhymes and cadences for as long as I could without someone walking in. Anything under a line of tallymarks goes unquestioned. Counting is work.

I showed no one. In my mannerisms, I am fae, flittering out of sight as I hope to be seen, but bound by forces beyond me to avoid it as I'm able. Even when I finished it, when I perfected it and loved it and was well and truly *proud* of it, I could not stand by it. I rolled it, fit for burning, into a tight scroll of notepad paper and carried it home with me. With her eyes turned, I slipped it into her flask.

She's not much of a drinker. I am. I have no excuse here. At some point in the 5 years hence, in some drunken stupor I must have drank from the flask and found the poem and done away with it. I'm not sure she ever saw it. If she did, she didn't mention and she doesn't remember. I don't remember.

So, it's gone, simple as that. If I find it, I'll add it here.