A Waste of Trees.

There are days when I'm happy to lay here
flat across this new found sheet of mentality.
Then there are the days where I feel pliable,
flat, as the paper crunched between your fingers.

I'm fine, of course, as there is no other option.
And I tell myself 100 times a day, I'm so fine.
But sometimes when I'm finally alone after days of being fine
I find myself scattered, like cofetti, all over the floor.

The new crumples I carry will outlive yours,
literally. As how the dog-eared pages I left
may dictate in direct proportion the amount of which.
Till then, I lie under this Dictionary of simplicity. I'll be flat again.

But be it dog-eared, bookmarked or ripped right off the page,
Sweetheart, we are such a waste of trees.