Ashveil

I burn the bridges just to feel the glow, Because the smoking ruins keep me warm. The scarlet flames confirm what I must know: That something true existed in the storm. I watch the heavy timber crack and fall, And tell my heart: the searing heat was real. At least the blazing fire took it all, At least the falling ashes I can feel. Forgive my restless craving for the spark; I strike the match to drive away the dark.

You are the spark against my brittle bone, The buried ember feeding on the dark. I burned beside you, silent and unknown, A blazing forest springing from a spark. But now you leave, and fading is the heat, I'm cooling down to ashes in the grate. I hold my stinging fingers to the sleet, And watch the dying memory abate.

Long after flames surrender to the ash, A glowing crimson lingers in the night. I press my palm against the final flash, And hold onto this stubborn, fading light.

The fire seeks the paper in the night, The wooden trinkets drying in the hall. It hungers for the photographs so bright, And strips the climbing ivy from the wall. I’m nothing but the shadow of the blaze, A hollow shell of charcoal, dry and dead. If you look closely through the smoky haze, You'll find the ghosts of everything we said.

I kept the little fragments you forgot: The subway ticket, matches from the bar. These tiny tokens resting in a knot, They sit beside my memory, ajar. It takes a single breath to spark the flame, I hold no malice, only brittle grief. I hear the quiet whisper of your name, And catch ablaze like autumn's crimson leaf.