In Flames

Flames lick her smile,
turning the film edges black.

Notes and letters and inked I-love-yous smoke
an ashen pillar into the night sky,
a funeral pyre befitting our consumate end.

Like passion, fire thrives
on what it consumes.
It billows above the corpse
of selfless substance,
it unfurls extravagently
with tendrils reaching out for more.

But we simply had nothing more to give.

I am a hopeless pyromaniac,
I crave the heat and the glow
of impulse.

Now as I burn her memories into the ground
I find it a fitting result,
that we shatter our love with equivocal velocity
as it was born
from our youthful vivacity.

We simply consumed each other
and ourselves.