A Burning Forest

Let me try to refrain myself, to tie myself around this metaphorical dying tree and lie down beneath a fading July night, one that blankets me within its loving yet ephemeral arms so that I can keep all the sorrow of the world at bay. Everything is ephemeral. Yes, exactly like love itself. And it truly does occur within the changing of seasons. People simply grow apart, and you can't do a thing about it. You like to think that you can find an exact time and pinpoint where a branch started to break or a crack appeared in the glass, but time seems to zip by much too quickly for the naked eye to even witness such a fleeting occurrence. And so you try to collect the broken pieces and mend the throbbing wound, to prevent the wound from bleeding out even further. Hemorrhages in multiple places, the hearth where your heart used to be. And so your pyromaniac tendencies grow immensely in spite of your adoration to let the fires consume each intricate bit of memories. So you wait until someone who gives a s**t walks into your life and quenches the fire.