Burn

I retrace the words you wrote,
Pretending they were still true.
A smile sneaks onto my face,
But quickly recedes.
All I have left are pages inked with past.
The way things were, the way you felt, the way it made me feel.
These pages are worthless.
Essentially future fiction written long ago.
What a lovely shade of yellow-orange they turn!
If it seems too good to be true, it's bound to burn.