Burnt Papers

I sit in front of the fireplace, in a house empty and cold; I throw in another waded up piece of paper from a box all tattered and old. The flames consume the paper, like the hundred pieces it did before, from love letters that she wrote me, before my heart, in half, she tore. I sit in front of the fireplace; one last piece of paper in my hand - it is the marriage certificate that goes along with my golden band. I sit in front of the fireplace; the box, now empty, like the house; the papers now are burnt and gone – no more evidence I had a spouse.