They Burned

I stare at it

The little pile of black.

It hadn’t started that way.

It was once a page

A page that held

Every word

Of every feeling

I ever had

For him.

The rhythm of the words

The thrumming noise

In the back of my skull

It’s self-sustaining

Like an echo

Of an echo

It is its own

Reflection.

They were real

Once

Those words.

But they ended

And so must their entire

Existence.

So I lit a match

And they burned.