I thought of my desolate air fresheners, of all shapes, sizes and scents.

pick the little one shaped and scented like a rose.
the sweet, cloying smell that irks your sensitive nose.
nobody knows how it happened, but
your breakfast goes (out).

pick the green tree, the one that smells like pine.
maybe you should wash it down with some wine.
the sharp scent reminds you of grandma's house, and suddenly you taste brine on your face.

maybe you should take the one shaped like a lemon, with a whiff of zing.
suddenly I remember how you didn't even blink
with your acidic words when you said you were leaving.

nothing seems to be able to mask the sad, musty smell of loneliness;
but maybe with a gentle caress.....?

an oncoming twister.
disaster?
you know, that thing people warned you about.
a flash of lightning and a thunderbolt.
strong gales that blow you away.

the weather report has already warned you to escape while you still could.
but even if you should, you didn't leave.
then, you get caught up in the storm.
the strong passion that swept you off your feet;
the violent explosion of fiery and icy emotions meeting.

then suddenly,
the tornado that was your love affair passes.
disappears; like nothing ever disturbed the peace.
you are scared: you have been caught up in the twister all your life.
the sudden calm seems ominous -- is this an oracle given by the heavens?
suddenly you wished you were caught up in a disaster of another kind.

they say after one has been branded with the mark of passion, the indelible mark remains seared into our skin, our hearts, and into our very bones.
the indescribable warmth that is like a poppy flower, brings about hunger; hunger for warmth that never ceases.

from the time you have first been marked by the fiery tongue of passion, you seek in a vast, endless sea. for the one flicker of the flame that you have felt before: the familiar burn of the glowing ember against your temples. you seek, you seek and you seek, but it is always hiding away, waiting for the true bearer of light to show himself.
the depravity of the wicked flame grows, and it pushes you to ***** for heat, any source of heat that can be found.

you are desperate: you don't let the pain of getting your hands too close to the glowing flame muddle your judgement, all you care about is grabbing the fire and staying warm. touching the flame as it viciously grazes your fingers, singeing every last particle left on your fingers. but you aren't bothered; you can't be bothered. what matters is the sacred fire — that is all that matters.

cry yourself out,

let the tremors in your heaving shoulders shake away what was once so loud.
a love once clear as day, and without a doubt. I'll learn to love myself.

let your tears wash away all the anguish of yesterday; it will all be okay. I'll learn to be strong.

let the dust settle into place, let reality sink in — to the left side of my bed where you used to lie next to me. I'll learn to sleep alone.

let your scent, the smell of home and warmth go, away with the summer wind. I'll learn to sleep in a scentless room.

let your familiar warmth fall away, slowly — I'll learn to survive on my own heat.

all the things I'll have to learn to do without you; I think I'll be able to do it.
I'll rely on the faith that you always had in me and learn to be better...myself.