You’re going to fail
and we’ve always known.
We never talked letters or scores
but instead, for two short years played our roles.
Until once upon a time
you were sat in a hall
and as your eyes roamed the pages
you realised that the questions were like strangers.
Your answer sheet was curved, a paper bird
to be freed and not weighed down with words.
So you rested your pen for good,
in the canyon between two worried sheets
And then your table was still
until your eyes begged for help, as I walked past.
You stayed in that room for two full hours
watching the shadows fall and try to tease each blank page
But the blanks were brave and stubborn.
Like your future they were unwritten, undefined.
You were scared to leave – so you stayed at your desk.
But who am I to judge, too scared to ever leave mine.