Fire

In the attic of my bones,

where memories hang their coats,

you linger, a ghost with ember eyes.

You, with your fiery heart, a wild symphony

played on the strings of my ribs—

fierce and consuming.

A language I tried to grasp,

sparks that leapt into sentences,

flamed in the tangle of sheets and seasons.

How quickly fire turns to ember,

how slowly ash accepts the wind.

Silence fell, sudden as night,

shrouding us in the thick cloth of quiet,

when fear walked through the door.

We loved as only the young can love,

whole-heartedly, disastrously,

with the kind of passion that writes itself

deep into the marrow of bones.