April 07

Timed writing: Ashes

the aftermath is simply this:
dirty puddles, the pervasive
smell of smoke,
the obliteration of whiteness
by ashes and soot.

this is when you begin to fear
that nothing
will ever be clean again.

when everything you've ever loved
ceases to exist,
it's hard to remember
who you are
really.

take away the protective veneer
of things
and maybe
you feel small enough to be
lost and easily forgotten

easily discarded

something so insignificant
that it's a wonder
you ever existed at all

there is no time to dwell on loss
there are treasures to be discarded
trash bags to be filled

there is starting over that
needs doing
and tomorrow isn't going to stay away
while you mourn

maybe somewhere in the wreckage
there is something
salvagable

something you can clutch to your breast and say

yes, this is mine

something you can rub
between your palms,
staining your skin black

something tangible and unbroken

the aftermath is simply this:
everything you thought you loved
is now ashes

everything you thought you needed
is gone

the sun will rise tomorrow
and still
nothing will be clean

but if you're lucky
there will be one shard of yesterday
you can polish up
and you will whisper

yes, I remember