Sparks and Ashes
I obsess not so much about her
As what she represents:
The vibrance and sophistication of the city.
The scent of roses.
The shared secret smiles of a first chance encounter.
The freshness of life in the new and present moment.
(I hardly remember her face,
Only the rapt attention of her eyes.
But it was her wit I remember most.)
I am not for her, nor she for me.
She serves only to remind me
Of life in its ever-present variety.
A world of people and places and faces and ideas-
So much to know and see,
And I want to see all of it.
But you and I-- we have grown warm and comfortable,
Enveloped in the habits and paths of five hundred days
Of caring and continuity and perhaps even love.
But I still look for a fellow-traveler,
A seeker of truth and secrets,
Who will help me discover everything
About the world, and each other, and love.
Have I already discovered all there is of you;
Have we done and said all there is to do and say?
Or are there still some layers left,
Layers we have not yet uncovered?
Tell me, truly- have we lost our spark?
Perhaps I am not meant for warmth
But only the searing heat of a magical moment.
Perhaps you and I are doomed to wither
While our fire grows slowly cooler-
Or perhaps we too can continually discover
And rediscover that spark.
Perhaps there will be nothing left but ashes,
I reflect as I look into your eyes.
Perhaps there will be nothing of us but ashes,
But perhaps a phoenix will rise.
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