the soft glow that procedes a burn on a piece of paper is liquid in nature,
its fluid movement mirrors that of
its most ancient enemy.
the snake-like sweeps across the now
carbon ash leave a residue on the retina;
as a thought that has remained in one room whilst one has gone on to the next.
these tender chicken scratch post-its were once more than thought,
they were words of someone caught in time and treated with tender care,
stuck along the living room wall as a reminder
to clear out the dishwasher,
to feed the dog,
to smile today.
but, as all things, they have their own time.
and as I sit and inhale the gaseous form of their tickling reminders, I can say that I am glad to be rid of one more pile of useless paper.