When fire illuminates, not smoulders – what next?

She poured gasoline all over their memories
after a very frank conversation in which she
asked who he wanted to share his heart with
and he said “I could be happy either way.”

She knew he was lying and she told him as much
but he was driven to take the easy route
and she was determined to prove to him
that there was no simple path away from this.

So she lit up their lives one final time
sparks of love letters and greeting cards
birthday gifts and Hershey’s kisses,
once a trail of chocolate down halls leading
to angelic sighs on passionate nights.

Watched aluminum purple wrappers
glow and then brown and disappear
reasoned her actions by saying they’d tried:
attempted to figure out how to make it work
when they both had known it wouldn’t.

If black smoke means the fire is fueled
and white smoke shows it’s smouldering,
she leans in closer, eyes on their heat, wonders
what it means to be teased by both colors.


Read Phil’s gasoline poem here.
Read Heather’s gasoline poem here.