I sit in a prison of my own making,
Neither a friendly place,
Nor one of misery.
It is not black and white,
But rather every shade
Of gray.
It is cold.
And it is dark.
I pull my threadbare blanket -
Worn with use and
Useless attempts to maintain
What once brought me joy
But now threatens to leave
At the blink of my heavy lids -
Around my trembling shoulders,
Wishing for
The warmth,
The heat,
The love,
That once surrounded me.
I gaze with empty eyes,
That are far too tired
To produce the relief
That tears might bring,
At what was once a fire,
Tall,
Leaping,
Sparks flying,
And always,
Always beautiful.
Once containing every color
That heat could create -
The red of my blood
Which ran for you,
The orange of the sunsets
We once witnessed together,
The yellow of the sun
Who cast his rays upon us
As we drove around the city
With no particular destination
In mind,
But rather with the intent
To lose ourselves
In life and youth,
And in each other.
And at its brightest,
The blue of my eyes
Which you still admire,
Have always adored.
The violet of most of the shirts
You wear,
Shirts which I, too,
Wore at some point or another.
And white,
The color of the roses
Which only the other day
I told you were my favorite,
Besides the red.
A rainbow of heat,
Of memories,
Of what once fueled
An effortless union
Of two willing hearts,
Which I now fear are quite separate...
Pulling my blanket ever tighter,
Pointlessly,
I gaze wistfully at what is now,
At best,
A barely smoldering
Pile of delicate embers,
Soft, silky ashes,
Harboring tiny
Pockets of heat
Here and there,
Which stir ever so gently
If you blow on them
In just the right way,
But no longer produce
Enough heat
To calm the chill
That grows in me.
My hands -
Missing your fingers
Intertwined with mine,
As they once were -
Itch with the desire to
Stoke what remains
Of the blaze
That's passed.
But what would come of it?
I fear it.
I can no longer predict what
My words,
My actions,
My confessions,
My honesty,
Will stir in you.
You have become
All but a steady,
Indefinite time bomb,
A fuse lit with perhaps
The same fire
Which once united us,
Which does not
Burn at a steady pace
But only moves another inch
Every time
I make a mistake.
I fear setting you off,
Which I do so easily now,
Without intent,
And so unexpectedly,
But a greater fear
That rests in me
Is losing what we have,
This tiny flame
That still exists,
And which I nurture,
Terrified
That it will burn out forever.
This place I'm in...
I do not like it here.
It is cold.
And it is dark.
I have no way to leave,
It seems,
For this fire
I refuse to abandon
Also provided light,
Gave me some direction
Like an oil lamp,
Guiding me along
A twisted, narrow staircase,
Seemingly going up,
But treacherous
In its crumbling structure,
Uneven steps,
And startling trip-ups.
It gave me a way to see,
To feel out
Where I was going,
On an already-difficult path
Which I felt I could not
Navigate alone.
I was so grateful for
That flame,
A source of comfort
In a dark place.
But even then,
It is finite.
That of nature
And man
Always is,
Isn't it?
Somewhere along the line,
The smoke grew thinner,
The flame grew smaller,
The ashes grew denser,
And the temperature
Grew colder.
I was an unprepared traveler,
Only carrying the bare minimum,
This blanket which now rests uselessly
On my shoulders
And spine,
Curved with defeat.
I did not brace myself
For the gust of icy wind
Which would *****
A delicate but vital
Resource,
And knock me on my back,
Fragile spine and
Brittle ground
Colliding
In a predetermined battle.
I am not quite as seasoned
In these things
As I once thought,
As I still
Would like to think I am.
I should not have
Overestimated myself,
Just as I should not have
Underestimated you,
And my own
Irreparable foolishness
And silly
Romantic tendencies.
And while I sit
And ponder this,
I watch the tiny embers
Flicker,
Luring me in with a
Promise of
Revival,
Repair,
Resolution.
They are so small,
And seem to have
Lost their purpose,
Two feelings
I am quite acquainted with.
I have two choices here,
It seems.
Continue to nurture that
Which once
Brought me purpose,
Brought me healing,
Brought me life,
And hope that it returns -
Just as I hope you do -
To what it once was.
Or, I may abandon
What is smoldering
As your eyes once did
When you looked at me,
This pile of ashes,
A majority of which
Is comprised of
Scarring memories,
Painful stories,
Fear and apprehension,
All of which I tossed
With blind faith
And shocking optimism
Into the fire
We created together,
In hopes that our new start
Would also create
Our happy ending.
I am still unsure
Of what will come.
But for now,
I fasten my blanket,
And my own arms,
Around myself,
And wait out the winter.
We shall see
What spring will bring.