Sometimes I get a whiff of the still smoldering bridge that I set aflame long ago,
it’s much easier to light the match when your blood doesn’t call out from the injustice. Not your heart, your blood.
While watching it burn, I winced in pain of being the only witness. As if being the only survivor when Death is prowling around, and doesn’t choose me but the ones that tug at my heart.
By far the worse is having to allow the illusion to wither and die,
by far the best is having something real, something lovely, grow in its place and flourish