There's a whole
pile of them. They sit on the
coffee table next to my bed. They've had various
beverages spilled on them, they're
sticky and
stained brown. The
ink has run and left
black or
blue streaks down the
paper.
Some are from as far back as September, before I knew her. Some are from as recently as Saturday, about two weeks after we'd broken up.
I should burn them.
I should rip them to pieces.
I should give them to her.
(I certainly have no use for them anymore)
They contain my scribblings, my love, my complements, or little in jokes. Or maybe just my complaints about how much chemistry sucks.
Wasted ink, paper, time, thoughts, energy.
Wasted love.