Beautiful as Fire

Tell me about the first person you loved. Tell me about how they loved you and you loved them. How you stopped and why. Or if that concept cannot yet be understood. Give me the number of lessons you learned and if you’re still counting. Show me this list of each rich and poor moment. Is it written in cursive? Are there pictures in the margins?

Tell me how you sat, day in and day out, cradling the heaviness that was knowing everyday would carry their name somehow. How the silver screen in your head  exhausted the replays of instances and the memory table of your heart turned scraps into feasts. How did it taste?

Now, tell me of the day it all felt different. The day you couldn’t even write about that person if you tried. Or the, now foreign, name that used to lay on your tongue like…

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