Monday, January 31, 2011

In A Chest Deprived Of Oxygen No Fire Can Envelop The Heart

I look around my room and on the floor
there are multiple envelopes
from a woman up north

I remember how when we first began talking
I told her not to love me,
not to even say the damned word,
and she did it anyway,
like I had locked up my love
and she were the most skilled of safecrackers

These physical representations begin to anger me,
these remnants of yet another woman's attempt
to give me something I didn't want,
and I'm left with only one comforting thought;
"At least it wasn't the other way around"

Grabbing up the papers and burning them seems the thing to do,
it's funny how a cleansing through fire
can seem so very dramatically right
yet be so truly unfulfilling,
so I go through the motions
of putting flame to the debris of an old flame
that never really lit me up


© 2011 William A. Robertson (All Rights Reserved)