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
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.