Watched the flames grow, glowing embers
tracing the carpet, the dresser,
brilliant light cut through the smoke,
pure morsels of red,
like sitting on the inside of a sunset,
the way the mirage of the horizon
slices the copper rays of sun
into rows of dust and glowing incense.
It's like sitting in the pit of hope.
We prodded and we stoked. No reality,
no street cleaning trucks hissing and fussing
along the curbside, no stacked envelopes
of bills left on the coffee table unpaid.
Only a child-like curiosity for watching
things burn. It's easy to let go
of reality, let emotions pull us
from we've learned, the stacks of love letters
whose meaning fade, turn from sentiment
to dry sheets of paper dappled with time.
And I gave it all up. Foolhardy and naive.
Thinking that love was an all-consuming,
permeating force of nature, rather than
a force of destruction.
There are reasons, and there are ashes,
piled high and swaying, breaking off into the wind
like graphite snowflakes shed from the earth.
And I think about what I gave up.
The way I reached over and held your hand,
held it for one fleeting moment,
before letting go to strike the match.
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