Ashes After a Fire

"If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it’s your duty to be reduced to ashes by it."- Charles Bukowski

Sleepless, pure, raw love.

The one that makes you reach the stars, yet, somehow leaves you feeling as vulnerable as an autumn leaf.

How can all this come to an end?

It is the supernova's final explosion. Our ineluctable fate.

Just like light bulbs.

They suck at all the energy they possibly can, until the light disappears, and the room is left drowning in darkness.

You and I were like that.

And we lay on these undone sheets, begging for a reason to keep going. After we inhaled each other, until there is no more oxygen to penetrate our lungs.

And you discover new places, new closets where to hide, new dreams.

And stomach butterflies turn into knots in the throat, that never seem to leave, no matter how hard you try.

You remember a touch, his touch, and you ask yourself why, why do we want things we can’t reach? Maybe it was all written.

Maybe if you wouldn’t have touched my hand, that day, then maybe I would be different now.

I learned how a smell can get you anywhere, how fragile a feeling can be. Just like a larva metamorphoses into a majestic butterfly to then turn into dust on that same day.

I crave the sparks in his eyes. The sparks I felt as I touched his lips.

I crave my own butterflies, the ones he once gave me.

I learned that when a fire starts burning, his death is already written and yes, all that’s left now is the dust and the melancholy of that warm flame and its warm colours but at least, we survived the cold.