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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.

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