The second time I’ve done this.

The first was to a random guy in middle school.
Some off-brand donut idiot
that turned out to be a terrible human being:
he would go on to date my friend,
cheat on her with her other friend,
start rumors about both said friends,
and then manipulate another group of “friends”.

Overall,
a negative experience. I dodged a bullet,
is what I tell myself,
and what others tell me.

But I find the act of confession liberating.
There’s something wonderful about building up love,
and then there is something even more brilliant about living in it,
and breaking down for it,
but the final act, the curtain call of it all,
is burning the whole place down.

You are either left with an urn of memories.
Or you are left with nostalgia for a setting you can’t even remember.

And the fire will lick at your feet,
you will feel regret, one way or the other,
and you will smell the smoke on your hands,
and feel the embers flick across your cheeks
like fleeting needles flying through the air.

There will be warmth
and there will be heat so blisteringly hot
that it starts to feel cold.

There will be the shock of cool air
when you finally leave the bonfire
and there will be the yearning for both.

Finally,
there will be the yearning for yourself,
and maybe what once was.