Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

An Arsonist's Lullaby

In some ways, fire could be described as fluid.
Not in the way that water has no shape,
nothing to grasp onto
as you and I race to the lake,
laughing as we forget to breathe.

No.

Fire is fluid
in the sense that it is free,
a flickering light in the dark,
unable to be captured by nets or traps.
It is fluid, and it is free.

So as we stand in front of the camp cabins,
know that I am not thinking
about the consequences of our actions,
I am not even thinking
about what we should do
after the embers sizzle out
and the bodies are found in the rubble.

No.

I am thinking about the beauty
that is the flames of a fire unrestrained
and left to let go.
Because it is a beautiful sight to watch.
Because not many people are brave enough
to leave the safety
of their little homes of firewood
and allow themselves to let go.

But you did,
and I admire that about you.
You and your wide smile.
And your bright eyes.
And your incandescent passion
and iridescent beauty.

And as I sing you to sleep
under the silver moon,
on the run from the firefighters
trying to douse our flames,
I see that you are also water.

Your loyalties forever changing form,
from one person to another,
from unwavering
to unstable
and then
back to unwavering.

I cannot trust you.
But I cannot stop loving you.
Like the fire we set not five hours ago,
I cannot stop watching you,
and comparing you to water.
Fluid,
and free.