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“This is all of it?” I whispered.
The paper feels heavier than it should,
its fibers thick with shadows—
each tear a hidden echo,
each crease a map of blame.
I tore it again,
thinking smaller pieces might burn faster,
that breaking it down
might make it easier to let go.
The pile grew, unsteady in the cold air,
a fragile heap of what we couldn’t keep.
When the fire caught,
it was cautious, almost tender—
a flicker tracing its way through the ruins.
Then it surged,
a quiet greed unraveling
what had once held us prisoner.
I watched as the edges curled back,
retreating from the heat,
a slow surrender,
as though my fears were bargaining
for a last moment to exist.
The ink buckled,
its lines twisting into thorns—
unspoken apologies bending towards forgotten names
before they disappeared.
Smoke unraveled like ghosts,
spiraling into the air,
each thread unraveling memory,
pulling loose from the tapestry of my mind.
What was mine dissolved into the dark,
becoming ash, becoming wind,
slipping into places I’ll never find.
The embers dimmed,
a quiet rhythm soft as breathing,
their glow a final witness.
The warmth lingered on my skin,
reminding me of the way I held on too long.
I feel the heat still,
a phantom touch on my fingers,
and wonder if I’ll ever stop
pulling my hand away too late.
But tonight, the fire has taken
what I dared to offer,
and the emptiness left behind
feels like a kind of freedom.
Image (c) Bhavni Sikdar |
