exactly. mersault's mother. you took the words right out of my mouth. i still remember when you scrawled impulsive poetry all over a copy of the outsider (the stranger) as we drove down to ko chang from bangkok. and then when you split you gave it to me as a gift. still got it somewhere. but what the fuck does the outsider have to do with this poem?
i'm not sure if this poem makes grammatical sense but it does capture the feeling of longing and waiting in vain so i'll say "bravo." did you write it on another copy of the outsider? — ollylama