In my bed, a bed that never saw your body, never drank our sweat, or felt you rise at dawn. In my bed a fire lit. It started in my belly and stayed there. It burnt my guts. It took my heart. Nightmares, tears, panic, all of the things that came from your disappearance, fuel. All of it, fuel. I burned until the only thing left was ash.
The odd thing about nothingness is that it never truly is nothingness. Buried within is always more. More pain. More hope. More. While the fire emptied me out, some strange well filled me. I wonder about it now. I’m a pile of ash and still I breath.
That bed, the furnace with my dreams of love a smoldering collection of wood and smoke warming every inch of my life. I seek sleep in it now and it feels like a war. A thing that is winning and losing, together. I lay in it, tossing,turning, allowing myself to think of you, willing myself to forget. But I never truly want to forget. We can paint over it, we can turn it away when it begs to crawl between the sheets, we can put a million miles between this day and that, but the burnt earth will never forget. The scars of this fire will be seen by every man and woman that passes through our scorched worlds.
A friend told me today that he a had moment in life where he opened his eyes to a room filled with flames. In his left hand was a match, in the right, a gas can. In that moment you can do only one thing. Let the mother fucker burn. All of it, down to the ground. You with it. We hold onto some moments with a religious fever. And to watch them burn is a baptism. Sacrosanct reckoning.
A dunk in the river, a dab of holy water, none of it compares to the righteousness of fire. And so I am grateful. I am reverent of this bed that now holds the bones of a new woman. To me it is a nest. And I am a phoenix. The pillows are seeds and the blankets are feathers. And I will be a phoenix. I will be hot to the touch. My hurt will be the wings that keep my soul open, wings spread wide, despite fear, despite the weakness of this new skin.
It is easy to look back at lost love and regret, hate. I will never do that. In my chest is a small, wood cabin that exists only for that love. It is where I keep forgiveness, respect, and true love. As my body ages, this house will not. There is a bow with arrows on the wall, a red hot stove, and a bed with sheets that are always turnt down, waiting. It is fire resistant. All great things are both fed by heat and strong enough to withstand the match.
This one’s for you Gyspy.