"I walk here with him and talk about it"

You made me get in the car,
without asking.
I hate you for that.
I really do.
Though everything you do, seems to be right.
I can't take the poet from his house,
everyone was waiting; that wasn't fair.

I saw him in the window,
peering down.
But you heard a splash,
and swore up and down, he had died.

But I know,
that just as quick as we got back in the car,
it'd never be spoken of.