Pyre

I saw you today near the bins of kale,

shifting the weight of a paper bag strap.

You looked thin and tired and suddenly frail,

like a bird that was caught in a very small trap.

I remember the way that I sharpened my tongue,

how I waited for just the right moment to strike.

The air in the kitchen was heavy and hung

with a silence that neither of us could quite like.

I won by a mile, I burned down the room,

I left you with nothing but static and salt.

Now I stand in the grocery store’s fluorescent gloom

and I know that the ending was mostly my fault.