Sign up to EliteSkills

Broken, my hands fumble over
a book of old matches, and I picture
you (as you must be) smiling, holding
him falsely as if he were the answer;
your answer for me. Crumpling pieces
of paper, I place them beneath reddening
bows of the dying tree, remembering to allow
room for this fire to breathe. You, tasting fresh
air for mere weeks, have already given your lungs
to another; anyone to keep your delicate heart
readily beating—Love needs space to burn—I strike
the match, and blocking my spark from the wind,
slowly touch fire to paper; the image of your arms
wrapped tightly around my shoulders blazes through
my mind. Rapidly flames spread throughout the tree,
burning, inhaling frail needles and branches; like your passion,
the heat disappears before I know how to feel. The wood, still
cracking and popping, shoots embers in my direction,
and sears a hole in my jacket; I’ve never been burned.
Smoke lingers in the freezing air, and only ash remains
among the fallen snow. Cold and weary, you have taken
away the temporary warmth I borrowed. Alone, I whisper,
“Christmas trees…we were only burning Christmas trees.”