burn.

i wanted to wrap my tongue around words that didn't rhyme with my guilt.

i wanted to wrap my arms around a woman who didn't shy away, covered in other thoughts of other times that maybe were better but certainly won't happen again.

i wanted to wrap words around my tongue like her kisses used to fit, all tender and longing and satisfied, eventually.

i wanted to wrap my shoulders with something not quite as heavy as the weight of the world, but just as warm and burning.

these months are the cold.

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'i should burn these'

'why?'

'well…'

'why not just recycle them?'

pause.

'or do you want the ceremony of actually burning them?'

'yeah.'

i reached forward and took the very large pieces of wrinkled and creased newsprint, and slowly stuffed them together. the bodies, the torsos, rendered meticulously in hand-smeared charcoal to a recognizable likeness of our younger selves, pressed together in the haphazard way i still long for, and then filled the garish blue recycling bag. my hands got covered in charcoal. again, this was comforting. i smiled a grim smile then, holding my breath like i do when i empty the compost or scrub the toilet or wait for a reprimand, and held the bag full of drawings close to my chest.

'i shoulda burned them.'


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