Smoke as White as Paper, Black as Ink

I stuffed the fireplace with letters to my wife
With letters to all my wives,
The real and imaginary ones,
The ones who half existed, the ones who
Flickered in and out of reality. The wives I wrote about,
The wives I refused to write about. The ones
I could have sworn I wrote about but about whom
There is no trace, not a single sketch or scribble.
The wives I dreamed of, the wives who dreamed of me,
The wives I were to other people, the wives
I was to myself
None of the letters were ever read
The envelopes still sealed
I squirted lighter fluid on the pile
And lit it with my last match
Just as you stepped through the door
And with a slightly worried smile asked me
What I was up to