Again, I’m not exactly a fan of modern poetry but I thought this was well done. It was almost lyrical, like a song.
Call me crazy, but I thought
I threw all of
these things away.
I burned those love notes
you gave me and
watched those pretty words
turn shades
of grey. But I get
home and
your pictures are back, the
glare of last night’s
bonfire on the glass.
Your love notes are in the
drawer again, those
words are made of ash.
So I pull the drawer out
once more, set them
on fire again. Standing
there
as your poems crackle until
half past ten.
And I break
all of the
picture frames and I
burned those green eyes too.
But I know
in the morning I’ll have
to start another fire
for the memories
of you.
Wyrdwend 