Extension
She finally did it.
Was it sick that I couldn't tell if she left at all? It was the silence that gave it away.
When she walked through a space, you noticed. The air seemed to vibrate with her energy. When there were no longer words, her presence filled the space like no music or T.V. could.
Maybe the smell of smoke would have tipped me off. Or the charred remains of our broken marriage.
But what wasn't burning?
When wasn't there smoke?
She was fire and he was the accelerant. Where she held back, he pushed her. Where she gave pause, he rushed her full speed ahead. Where she would cry, he would scream.
That fire was so captivating to him, he had to feel it pulse. Had to feel it move; needed it to consume him fully. It was an addiction he exploited in any way that he could.
Love.
Maybe if I keep saying it, I might believe it.
The room was cold now and engulfed in shadows. The little corner she would sit in wait for him was now littered with the broken fragments of their degradation.
It was a fantasy.
A fever dream.
To pull the wings away from a butterfly and paint over a Monet with tar. Speeding as fast as you could, wondering how far could you go before you got arrested. How far could you race to jail.
An adrenaline rush.
Love.
Maybe if I keep saying it . . . .
His father commended him on a job well done; by far the favored son. It was something he held to the light whenever he could. Flashing a diamond in the gutter. Throwing it into the grime and sludge, just to polish it again.
Her sister stamped a warning on his ass.
That was the end of the happy family.
But when isn't anything burning?
That's the point.
I stretched out on the stripped bed, taking in the lingering scents of fallibility and desperation. It's not as warm as the fire, but that sharp sweetness underlined in acid was better than oil.
There would be candles out there. Maybe the fire will rise and consume him; a delicious end that would be.
One could only hope.
Maybe if he said it often enough . . .
Love.
just feel
Fire.
blooms, just like you
Junkie.
need, raw and real and you for me
Thunder against the clouds.
Rain over the flowers.
Sunset shining on the shack.
back to me
Maybe he'll believe his own bullshit.
As you can tell I was in a mood an in a dark place when I wrote this. Something in me wanted to cap off the story complete, so I wrote this. It's poetry from a time just gone, hence a little scattered and unbeta'd, as I prefer with random fics.
Make of it what you will; I hope you enjoyed it.