The Grief Fire

I'm standing by a grief fire
that's been wanting to burn.

I finally laid the kindling

and hash-tagged small sticks, 

struck a match, and let 'er rip.

It lit up like a mid-January Christmas tree

the flames hungry for reconciliation.

I fed it more...

memories, hopes, wishes,

just twigs really

hot and hungry, wishing to escalate.

I grabbed the logs next...

the heaviest oak of priceless loss

that would burn relentlessly hot

until expended.

I wanted ash.

I wanted that flame obliterated,

but it had a life span I couldn't rush.

The embers kept their glow,

photo edges curling, snaps of time melting like wax

every dream drenched in gasoline.

I stood intimately close

gazing as my hair burned, my face gone,

dying along with the fire

and daring a Pheonix rise.

The Hope of Loneliness

This loneliness is so familiar. I have swallowed this feeling year after year, indigestion of my lack...lack of something I couldn't put my finger on, but assumed automatically was my fault. If I am at fault, then I can fix it! I can improve. 28 steps to a better me. There was medication and therapy, self help books, prayer, hours seeking insight.

After all that work, I'm still alone, and just as lonely as half of a whole. It's easier to be lonely alone than lonely together. There's no pretense of happiness set like dinner table utensils. It's just an emptiness that has an opportunity for fulfillment. It's an amazing hope to be a parking space with no car.

Someday, a vehicle may arrive.