In Which We Burn

Time is the fire in which we burn, ripples of lava on inner landscapes, eddies and swirls which twist and turn. Kerosene progress burns me now, I feel the pain of sweet conflagration dead cold and real. Hypnotic the effect, I embrace it’s dissolution, dissembling before a mind’s eye mirror crack’d, denied absolution. Reminiscing on the snow-queen wife I knew, awaiting her fascist husband’s demise; I see her alabaster skin and feel the succulent texture of her tongue in my head; even now I shiver and drown in her eyes. A scent of burnt toast in the kitchen (she slowly licked butter from her fingers), a Machiavellian aroma of stale coffee and strawberry perfume, even now it hangs, kicking dead air, it lingers. Time it slow burns me from frost-bitten toes on up; I still want her and need her as the air I breathe; her haunting aura feeds the flames and this fire it sears; time flame-throwers my existence for what feels like years; if only I could cry I would shed ashen tears for the torch which guttered and died at the click of her manicured fingers.