The Ritual

You tore a page from the notebook
which held last year's reminders:
places and dates you attended,
canceled, and purposefully
missed. Scribbled numbers useful,
others meaningless. Some names
you thought worth remembering.

Your steadfast hands pressed it
against a wall as you began
to fold it down into a triangle,
again and again, reducing it to
thick paper with three sides,
until you could fold it no more.

Before that, the flimsy fawn sheet
had you recognize words you didn't
write with your own hand. The clear
strokes revealed good intentions,
unsaid reservations, and an overture
to unexplored territories you knew
you'd never tread while each letter
maintained its depth and sharpness.

The folded points were too blunt
to cause cuts. You pressed it on
the table and saw it try to open
itself, the last fold, until it gave up.

Torn paper— spent, folded, somewhat
open. Still, useless. You just throw it.