Our End

A prose poem about the end of one of my relationships.

In my room I gathered everything; the bag of letters, the portrait, the pictures. My hands slid across the frame. I must say I didn’t feel anything but plastic as I held the side, gazing into your painted eyes. Slowly I made my way down the stairs to the laundry room, browsing for a lighter, a book of matches, or anything to set my heart on fire. 

Outside, there was a painted, ceramic furnace, it’s faded orange and burnt sienna color scheme seemed inviting enough. A smiling sun adorned the top of the fire pit, as if to tell me that I was finally doing the right thing, encouraging and warm. I reached my hand into the blue bag you used to conceal the gift you gave me for my not-so-happy seventeenth birthday. I wish I could remember what you had given me, but I don’t recall the day with the brightest emotions.

I pulled out one of the letters and pressed it to my face. Your perfume was still there, faintly, and I savored every moment that it graced my senses. It reminded me of the time that we spent together, and how wonderful and complete I felt with you. I laid it down in the furnace, buried under one hundred other memories. I reached for the diary that I used during our times together. The book was half-written in love, half in heartache. I firmly grasped the pages that I had used to capture our years and tore them from the book, not in anger, but in serenity. 

After everything was set, I opened the matchbook and drew a match. Something that had been so insignificant to me before now symbolized a release. Burning fire that would alleviate all the questions, the worries, the pain. I reveled in the power of entropy, destruction, dying, and the renewing of life. I struck the match against the pad, but the wind, held me in refrain before I could kiss your words with oblivion. Maybe the wind was a part of me trying to desperately hold on to what I had. But tomorrow was here. I lit another match where it could not stop me, and I laid the stick upon my old diary pages. 

As I looked, I read the words: To You, the best boyfriend a girl could ever ask for. I smiled; it wasn't true. I watched, my memories burst forth in light and death before me. Letters lined with Chanel burned well, and your beautiful scent graced me once more. The paper glowed with brilliance as I waited to feel regret for my actions, to be so possessed as to remove the burning words from the furnace and attempt to extinguish them. The feeling did not come, however, and I had found myself with an unusual warmth. The ashes of the letters danced around me so beautifully, and peacefully. I felt okay, at peace with myself and the world around me. The emotions of sorrow, anguish and anger were being lifted from me like the burning paper floating away, never to be seen again. 

I warmed myself on the fire; thoughts of our happiness had come to me, your endearing smile, the days where I knew you loved me. I was happy to know that I could finally look on what I created as something beautiful. With a sigh, I extinguished the flames. The night was done.