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Click hereI burned them today, your letters to me,
I placed them in a pile in the garden,
And set them a-flame….with one tiny match.
They burned quickly, paper white to cinder.
The smoke climbed, a sinuous path of grey,
As teased by a gentle wind, it twisted,
Graceful yet mocking, full of acrid charm,
Like a cup of unwanted memories.
And when the fire died, I began to cry,
Perhaps there were ashes blown by the breeze.