I was working on a gift for you.

A book - like the ones I've done before -

Only different... and prettier.

Instead, I tore out all the written pages today.

(Over a year's worth of work, I might add)

I found an old, used envelope,

And stuffed the torn pages in there.

I took a stick of glue,

And sealed the envelope tight.

Then spent some time staring at the sealed packet.

It's almost fitting... in its own depressing way.

It speaks volumes without saying a word.

I looked then at the remains of the book:

Still solid, still firm, still beautiful...

... if less than perfect.

Yet I have no heart to keep it nor to give it away.

So it'll find its home in a closet... or a bin.

The envelope - sealed with its precious bundle -

Will go to the fire.

As soon as I get home and settled down.

And I will watch it burn knowing it's not the only thing

That's going up in smoke.