Miscalculation

Last lunch till next year,
and I haven't scraped all the butter
off the pan.

You pause between mouthfuls,
assuring us this meal
looks and tastes good as before.

Don't know how you use plane tickets
like a coaster,
while the milk congeals mockingly.

With you, I thought I could bake Alaska,
and still find time
to fry the rest of the world.

I wanted to collect everything
ever made from you
and somehow reduce it to ash.
Bundles of pictures
no more than poor colour
and a blurred subject.
Boxes of lines I thought
you willingly read and repeated.
I didn't care
how much I choked on soot
or what I'd have to do
about the mess in my lawn.
I was going to burn you away.
Until I started remembering things
like the old shirt you wore
last time we met.
The muffled sound of your voice
and why you loved softball.
How you were the only person who knew
I was afraid of fire.