In my lifetime,
I’ve loved so many pages.

But I love this page.

I love this page with my whole heart
--the way the pen moves as it pumps blood to my fingers--
how the ink stains this once blank page.
--how with one staple,
my summer becomes an insert,
an attachment
that can be ripped out and forgotten

Maybe even
burned.
Like any one of the stained pages from my **** stain of a year.
Rip.
           Flick.
                       Ashes.
It can be gone.
I’m ready.
                       Let it burn.