Cinder and Smoke II

“Give me your hand 

And take what you will tonight, I'll give it as fast 
And high as the flame will rise”

I want her. I want to go back. I want to see her alive again, and see her gaze not dullened or stupid or indifferent. Fiery eyes. Not green, or hazel or blue or any of those exotic colors. Dark brown, blazing. Just the intensity and the determination, the spirit? Now I’m being cheesy, I know. But I never was the one good at words. That was always her job. She’d written me a poem. Just one. For all the amount of writing she did, I have to admit I was more than a little hurt that she’d hardly ever written anything for me. “You’re too good to spoil babe”, she’d told me once, matter of factly. Then she’d kissed me and I’d forgotten about it. I never told her this, for fear she’d laugh at me, and find it silly. But I’d written down the poem again and kept it in my drawer at work. J.D has a picture of his wife and kids on his desk, mine remains conspicuously empty of personal belongings, neat and clean, methodically arranged with the stacks of files kept according to urgency. I’ve been accused of being an automaton more than once by JD and the rest. But inside my desk, I’ve got that poem. It would remind me, that somehow incredibly, I’d managed to capture the spark that she was and hold its attention for so much longer than I could believe. She was fascinating, impulsive and changeable. I was methodical, intensely competitive and focused. The both of us were ambitious though. And we did so well towards the beginning. She did So well. They loved her, loved her incisive wit, her quirky use of dialogue and the words that made the scenes swim with color. Somehow though, it all unravelled.

“The snake in the basement 
Found the juniper shade 
The farmhouse is burning down”