What Light is Left

My heart rages just beneath the surface of my skin. I can see it.

Oppressive and suffocating, darkness bears down on me,

and it is difficult to see what light is left.

I smear the coal across my chest. My heart is where this started.

My hands beneath my thighs, I am contained.

She, ensconced in a felt lined blanket beside me.

The night air eddies around our solitary figures, cooling ember into ash.

The fire we had fed and gently nourished, that had given us it’s light, it’s warmth,

Was past it’s bloom, and had lost its blush.

In a moment of stillness, I realized I had never seen a fire die.

Energy expended in its creation, care offered in its keeping,

But never had I taken the time to witness it’s passing.

In my ignorance, so many moments missed.

She was quiet.

Tendrils of golden hair framed her downturned eyes and the fine lines of her features,

Her red cloak vibrant in it’s own fiery reflection.

She had her own world to view, her own words to arrange and consider.

She seemed weary, but resolute, strong, but softer in this moment.

I was glad she was there.

I spoke to the end of our fire, and the end of our night.

And I offered my thanks for the sharing of it.

She asked if I would add to the flame, and I wasn’t sure.

The chill had crept in and held our shoulders, kissed our cheeks.

I was tired.

We watched as our flame took it’s last breath.

White flames crested into yellow, yellow into flashes of orange and blue.

The flames efforted out in remembrance of places they had been,

And became enlivened when it found places it hadn’t.

It gasped and shuddered, and tried,

until it was, decidedly and simply, gone.

We said our good nights caressed by a canopy of midnight blue,

With a simple arrangement of stars laid lightly overhead.

I waited a while longer, still unsure of my intentions.

Feeling the grit beneath my shirt, I was reminded.

And as I lay, waiting for my night to end, for sleep to come,

For my heart to rest, I wondered ...