I wrote her name on a cheap restaurant napkin
encircled it with a perfect heart...
I held it out in front of me with my left hand,
and with my right, I flicked the rigid wheel
that scraped up against the hard flint, igniting
the tiniest of flames.

Left hand met right and I watched that pathetic
symbol (representing nothing of what she truly meant
to me) go up in a glorious display of oranges, yellows,
and at the heart... blue. Although the display never
let on to her importance, it did however summarize
my emotions: blue at the heart. It's strange
how blue can be both so cold and so hot.

I watched as that sorry sanitary cloth
ate itself and transformed to an unidentifiable
collage of black and almost-brown... and I recall thinking
to myself how appropriate those colors were.

It was then that I realized that there is a time, however, that blue can be both hot and cold in the same moment.

Because inside, a fire rages that is slowly engulfing my
ability to feel, my desire to love, and my will
to live. A fire that burns so incredibly hot,
yet in the end, leaves me feeling nothing but cold.