Ten Ways To Say Goodbye

THREE

And water is thrown upon

the candle - nothing surprising in

the way the fire fizzles out, wick droops.

You wonder if you expected something

other - an eternal flame, perhaps?

You have had too many nights of

cheesy love songs being played over

a radio, the silent spaciousness of your bed,

the loneliness, the dreams.

So you picked up your damp matchbook

and struck a match against the abrasive

surface of your heart - and something was

kindled. Barely bright to light your

room, but you were satisfied, and you

kept the flame, protected it even.

You left it in your room always: it

became a cliche, the first thing you saw

in the morning, the only thing you saw

at night. It kept you awake, kept

you alive, kept you warm.

But one day you came home to find it

raging. The wind, perhaps. Your open window.

A billowing curtain. And the entire room

awash in a red-orange of fiery passion.

It was only then you realized you had

let the devil into your sanctuary.

You grabbed a bucket.

Extinguished.

You sit on the charred remains of your

bed, nothing but ashes of memory. You would

gladly go back to the nights of solitude.

Those bad blind dates, the TV

dinners, the liberating darkness.