Burning all of the pages
I've written about you
would be equivalent
to setting a forest on fire.
Except I couldn't do that.
What a waste of paper,
what a waste of trees,
that I planted and grew,
watered them with my tears,
watched them flourish
with the many colors of you
glistening on all of the leaves.
The only thing you've written about me
was my name on the back
of a scratch piece of paper
crumpled up and forgotten
and you didn't even finish the sentence.
Just a little tree sapling.
Well, you can burn that
with a flame torch
for all I care.