Is this even a diary:
“I can’t wait for Monday,”
“I looked at her a long time”?
In everyday vanities
I am torn apart:
Reciprocity — or was I wrong?

“Today she was sad,”
“She laughed out loud.”
In my thoughts only she,
There is nothing else —
It was skipped.

This is not a diary at ALL —
Of worthless stubs.
Nothing interesting.
Ordinary fuel of love.