I am not the wind,

he told me once as he blew by

whirling in a way that touched everything

but me, in his efforts to remain

casual, cool, remote

and I couldn’t help but smile

as my heart slowly broke

shattering to pieces, scattering along behind him as he moved on,

that only the wind would howl

and put up a protest

at being called such a beautiful thing.



This is, I imagine,

what self immolation feels like:

the pregnant pause just before the match is lit,

intoxicated by the fumes of gasoline and suicide.

Striking tinder to create the missing spark,

God, when it catches,

the beautiful heat of the flame that burns

already familiar with its caress,

how intimately it becomes entwined with flesh,

removing the layers of clothes between

wanting nothing

to stand in the way of this sear.

There will be nothing

except echoes in ash of an exercise in futility.

Burn away what you cannot save

And in the end, you are left with nothing.