Scars and Fever Pitch

This is something new I wrote, after listening to Adele, and thinking about the past.  *Sigh*  Enjoy.

Scars and Fever Pitch

This fire no longer burns.

It is tucked neatly in my chest, an empty hearth.

On good days, it is haunted by the licks of ghostly sparks.

On the rest, it simply collects dust.

Waiting, whispering of days

less lukewarm, days kindled,

kernels geared to explode.

I’m not sure if I took you for granted, or if I simply overestimated your

being here.

I expected to feel the inferno forever, to have insides that you

always boiled to the point of fear.

Of sweating you out. 

Of melting away.  

Of anxiously incinerating in the wake of you.

It takes guts to admit you messed up.

On my best days, I can only ever tell it to the scars.

Or glance up at a star that pulses like you, and

beg that it forgives me.

Again.

All the other days, I am urn, silent but filled with

the stories of our dying.

Alone, I recall your laughter heating mine and

am flooded by the warmth of all your old scents.

I sit here and inhale them, a wrenching chloroform, hoping I’ll wake from this

nightmare, in your arms.

Still heated to the point of fever.

Still a cinder happily caught in that flame.

Still ablaze as my tongue turns your name over.

Still eager and willing

to burn.