Fifty-One

I struck a match at twelve
counting to five and watching
the smoke rise just long enough
for me to miss you – you were
my evening, night, and my air,
clouded in ash and memories;
with a burnt tipped match left in
my hand, as all that remained of
a time fueled in fire and desire,
where the rising smoke was a
promise we were infinite, with
city streets falling way beneath
us, now we’re just slow burning
into rising clouds of dust and ash.

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