tonight they light another pyre with flaming arrows. one night every year for centuries, in a place I used to know. locals board their windows. some don torches for procession down the high street. the masses gather to watch, as we had; somewhere between curious and drunk on clueless disregard of where we were and the fragility of present tense. we followed the crowds to a field beyond the lampposts and our maps. I remember the heat of the pyre on my cheeks, the amber washing out the dark and over every face I learnt to miss. we wrote our fears and burnt them to ash, like you between me and the water.
the mythology of memory persists; a silent cyclone spirals in the sink. and a date on my screen reflects another lifetime for a moment: when the world felt bigger and the distance between who we were and wanted seemed a little less than endless. now our limits only tighten and the pyres burn without us. I hope our ghosts enjoy the view.
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