Restlessness in your wake

The crescent of your voice chimed me from my slumber. You were speaking, or we were having a fully functional conversation. You were the one speaking, though.

Words were seeping from you, volcanic embers spewing from every crack I've seen forming in your exterior.

It burned red hot.

It wasn't the first time you poured molten rock into the cavity in my chest. It formed between scoops of ice cream, gentle laughter and feeding imaginary ducks. It formed between elongated goodbyes and never-to-see dewdrops on mountain ranges in the middle east. It formed with resentment lathered with paraffin in orange and turquoise cloths.

It wasn't always like this. The burn wasn't always unpleasant.

On cool autumn days I could liken it to a a warm touch in front of a fire place. I could liken your fire to something that would thaw ice or a woolly scarf at 7 a.m. when you're just barely awake, standing in the parking lot and trying to catch the first few rays of morning sunlight.

I despise that your warmth has become something more like a forest fire, destroying all the beautiful forest I've planted for us for these past few years.

I woke up from that dream more shook than anything. Can't really help but wonder whether you're burning too.

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Art by me