i had a condescending character that I buried under a pile of ashes;
of smiles,
good times,
and you.
i spent a lot of time alone,
when one day i discovered a forest.
a beautiful, magical, perfect forest.
and she was my secret,
for she was like me: alone.
i spent a lot of time talking.
she spent a lot of time listening, attentively, patiently.
one day she told me she had never experienced love.
“how does it feel?” she asked,
as the wind rustled and tickled the branches of her trees.
i took in the breeze and squeezed out the only word that came to my lethargic mind:
“pain.”
“i don’t know how that feels either.”
how fortunate,
how fortunate was it that her loneliness caused her to live painless while to me,
it was all it caused.
suddenly,
the idea of her perfection,
her absence of pain was as if someone had bathe me in kerosene and lit a match in my brain,
because suddenly i had the idea to ask a question on fire.
i marched to her,
one match in my had and the fire provoking liquid in the other.
“i am showing you how love feels!”
and so,
i began to put into action my newly conceived idea.
i slowly showered her with kerosene,
caring some,
caring less,
as i spared through her my hard work and sweat.
trying to console my mind that this is what she had asked for as i repeated our conversation over and, over again.
i stop,
i breath,
i scrape the match against one of her trees.
i ponder-
is a question worth asking if it’ll provoke a forest fire?