Sleep beckons
like a warm embrace
at my bedside,
Flame dances before me
in a vibrant display of heat.
I watch as it curls
around the paper
that I feed it,
ever curious
if it enjoys
the taste of the words
upon the sheets,
just as I
once tasted them
on my tongue.
Before my eyes
all the past feelings
the joy
the sadness
the anger
everything within
burns away
with the paper
as it fades into ash.
With every old note of yours,
the flame slowly trickles
down and around the edges,
savoring it with care.
I playfully tend
in mild interest
to my small fire
of memories
I wish to forget,
and just when the flame
nearly dies in neglect,
I grant it another note,
watching in emptiness
wondering if its smoke
will somehow
fill me with something
to feel
as it fills my lungs.
Rain seeps
down my window
providing me
a soft, dull noise
as I work.
But before long,
I run out
of memories to burn.
I had thought
that burning those notes
of love and affection
would give me back
something to thrive on,
ever so briefly.
All that it gave me
was a bad new habit
of burning things
and a slight
tickle of irritation
at the back of my throat,
as I continue to inhale
the smoke
the ashes
all that is left
of your precious notes.
With an apathetic sigh,
my gaze returns
to the faint whispers
of flame,
its deep blue color
yearning
searching
gasping
for anything more.
I then lay down
and watch
its dying breath,
the last bit of evidence
of my work
blinking away
as sleep covers me
in the dead of night.
I don't know if this is any good. It's very late, and normal people would be sleeping by now. Let's see how this goes.