The cracks

As we peeled little bits of blutack from under our fingers,
the coffees got cold and the cracks started to show.

We pulled down every little scrap of paper
that she'd stuck up on the walls;
every recipe near the fridge, every poem
near the fireplace, every bill above the sink.
We put all of her paper goods in a box,
and sat and waited for them to burst into flames.

It couldnt surely just sit there, all white and thin,
her life in paper, just sitting there in that box.
It needed to explode, spontaneously combust,
take a finger or two with it.. really shake the place up
like she used to do with words.

We peeled the little bits of blutack
from under our fingernails,
sipped cold coffee and waited
for the paper to ignite.