Is it the same. Fire burning my insides. The same kind of pain that also burns you. Does it feel the same. Ripping tearing at the what-ifs. Sickening vomit stirring pleasure. I wonder if you feel it, inside up through deep throat and under.
I thought I saw you, pull it back, behind that stare, behind your careful strong un-smile.
Or just my reflection. Burning sick, blank face, beyond. Is it the same. Controlled self action, disobeying, stinging nonsense, polite pretense. For the good of all the nations. Still the flame. I can’t blame you. I’m the same you.
Unless. We’re not. The same. Just lost. From when we are. Forgot. That you are not here. Burning. Yearning. Faking the moment. Respect for the fallen. For the sake of the ashes that won’t blow away.
I thought I was honest. But the smoke keeps it burning, my eyes and my nose. The landscape arranges by heated destruction and mud-sliding mountains uncovered my lies.
Is it the same. For everyone. That it’s not the same. For anyone. Except a connection that we might remember, or might have to learn, or might try to forget.
Salve for the wound. Cool reassurance. Words I don’t want. When I can only hear you. That it’s not all just burning. That it’s not all the same. Where I’m freed by a forest fire. That will be over soon.
Cindy Koch 