I take a note from the

Long dead refrigerator.

As I read, the paper

Crackles in my grasp.

Auburn light comes

Through the window

To rest upon the paper,

Describing why she

Left in such a hurry.

The kitchen is cold,

The paper brittle,

Like the woman,

That left it behind.

Brittle paper digs

Into my palm,

As I rip the

Pressed pulp to

Tiny pieces

That scatter the

Floor.