Since the Day Love Died


The bonfire I made from our past
threatens to engulf my present;
eyes sting, lungs sear, the skin
of my face tightens against the heat.

There was a lot of it;
photographs and mementos,
cards from every holiday, birthday,
anniversary and event.
I had newspaper clippings, ticket stubs,
poems I had written for you,
the menus we had saved
from restaurants where we enjoyed each other,
even the dried flowers you kept
that I had given you on our first date.

It all blazes merrily, a testament
to the power of fire to consume,
cleanse, and make things go away.

I find it ironic that I get more warmth
from the destruction of what we had
than I did from what we had.

And as the last remnant
of what you brought into my life
goes up in greasy black smoke,
smoke that curls in filagreed tufts
rising higher than I could ever reach,
I set my sights on the horizon,
where you and I do not exist,
and I am able to move forward.

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