Remember the days of napkin poems?

Scrawled prose upon bits of paper,

Shoved hastily into the others hand.

Of course they were about love,

Our past, dreams, fears.

Those sorts of things.

 

I kept them.

 

I would look at them later and smile,

Recalling the sweet way you loved me.

Tender words written in secret,

Meant for me.

 

Then one day,

I burnt them.

Watched the delicate feathers of scarlet

Lap up the words you crafted for me

And I smelled the smoke and ash.

Sometimes I regret it.

(Burning a peice of us)

But it's all in the past isn't it?

Like love and dreams and shared fears.