maybe, just maybe, somebody
hollowed out the empty spaces in
the trees at crescent park
just as a secret message to me,
to remind me that it's okay
for beautiful things to feel empty.

It started out as a flame
Flickering
Dancing off a matchstick that was an idea.
It kindled an idea to help renew,
To regenerate what was once lost.
The fire grew
And with it
A passion that could not be extinguished.

The warmth was welcomed by her body
A body so cold
So helpless against the dangers of the world
And herself.
The fire gave power
And with the power there grew an inferno
Once ignited, could not be smothered.

The fire whispered
Through smoke and cinders;
It whispered
To encourage the distressing ideas that flowed through her.
She was frozen
Frostbitten to the bone without the fire
And so
To stay alive
She stayed close by the hearth.

When friends became concerned
They tried to call her back
But she was too attached to the blaze.
While the smoke tangled in her hair
And coursed through her veins
She drew in ever closer.
She huddled towards the light
That was leading her to her dangerous desires,
Cutting everything off
Except for the sea of flames.
She clung to her damaged thoughts
And kept the fire steady.

Going almost unnoticed
Her skin turned red and warm;
She was too happy to embrace the heat.
She understood she was too close,
Yet she rose from her perch
Roused by the incandescence
The feverish luminosity.

She
A mere mortal
Drew within reach of the alluring fire.
The flames licked her face
Her hands
Her hopelessly lost mind
As she dove in
Headfirst.

Everyone she had turned away watched
Unable to help.


She registered one single thought:
It's too hot.

But
It was too late.
She couldn't step away from the furnace;

For suddenly she was bound by ropes of her own doing
A funeral pyre just for her.
She was stuck within the depths
Of the scorching fire she had so arduously cared for.
She tried to call out
To those just outside the fireplace
Watching
Witnessing
But the fumes enveloped her
Stifling her pleas,
Her cries for help.

She couldn’t breathe
The embers burning her lungs as she inhaled,
Silencing her voice as she exhaled.
She flickered for a second more;
The life left her eyes.
She collapsed
Leaving ash and bone to intermingle into nothing.


What she had once mistakenly perceived
As an idea,
No larger than a matchstick,
Was something she could not control.
But no one could control a fire that destructive
Or
Deadly.

I had a closet that was soundproof growing up
I used to crawl inside and perch on top of a mound of clothes
There I dialed a random number once
And told them all my secrets
On an answering machine that never hung up
I swear I heard someone listening
The air was pregnant with
Rosebuds
The petals of
Ripe
Imagination
So I created poems and gave them to
the child
Who sat in the corner of the call
This is real
I said into the phone
And no one said it wasn’t
So I told them I was not afraid to die
And it was quiet
So I told whoever was listening that
I loved them
Because we barely take the time to stop and love
To stop and call
I’m still waiting for my brother’s voice
To appear over the phone
And ask me how im doing
The warmth between us has grown cold and there’s icebergs creeping
Up in the depth of my confusion
Someone once told me love was blind
But im still trying to find you in the darkness
Find you on our old mountain walks
in our
Endless talks
He gave me piggy back rides
Letting me carve my secrets into the bark on his back
Even though he couldn’t see them or read them ever again
He used to be a sail
Letting me blow endless winds
Until my tears created rivers and
I built a boat with him
And sailed across
To the other side
where my cheeks were dry
I’ve heard that 90 percent of human interaction is non-verbal
so
ill wonder where his fingers are
that aren’t dialing 314 9770
there must be shrapnel in his back that replaces the spine that once made him a man

so ill dial until my
fingers find the right combination
of a familiar voice
and then ill tell them all my secrets
until moss grows on top of us
and we’re old
much higher up
on a mountain somewhere
looking back from where we came from.
From his little bedroom painted light blue
Converted from a closet with a round window
It was his little sea cabin in the house
Still holding all of our secrets.