A diary reopened, rewritten, for that reason,
A page I could not flip from, a chapter from that page.

The soft folds of paper were damp, and smudged was the writing,
An obstinate child within me, clinging to torn edges from that page.

A collection of faded photographs, as if rewinding through my mind,
Limited edition of these I had; all that was left from that page.

The candle on the birthday cake trembled out its breath,
Briefly it was lit, so brief it was living, only from that page.

One in three hundred and sixty-five, the blown-out ashes from the birthday cake,
Falling through my fingers were the crumbs of sponge and icing from that page.

With struggle and strain the factory faltered, gone with a forlorn, low buzz,
A muted glow, it had ceased to function from that page.

I took the torn page in my hand, cradling the withered, ashen candle,
As a dying flicker of light traced faintly the words from that page.