Book-burning

You said that you could read me
like an open book, so I tore out
the pages and let them burn
under the branches of the apple tree
that stands outside your window.

Now I'm wandering an avenue
of winter trees, and wondering
which page I am supposed to be on,
not that it makes any difference
to either of us, anymore.

And now that I am empty
of all the words you loved,
and now that you can't read me
anymore, the fire has burned out
and I am wandering alone.


Emily Smith

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