I am very close to the end of us. I thought you were too, but suddenly you're strange and trying again.

It's as though I watch from a window as you toil in the garden. Under the sun. With broken tools.

Why?

It's not ever going to work. It didn't really from the start.

And if I reach very slowly for the shutters I can shut them unnoticed.

Bolt them.

Turn my back and sigh a tired sigh.

I never asked you to start a garden; I have plenty of green beans.

I don't want to hear you cry (anymore).