I smell of smoke, of a fire that died hours ago, of the ashes that remain.
The taste of its thickness, of it billowing up, consuming the way that fire and smoke does, singeing tenderness and holding the air still with its very being.
I feel its warmth on a cold night, the waves of heat that escape and find me near, holding my clothes, my flesh, my attention hostage.
I see the flare of a fire that dies slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, little by little exhausting its reserve of energy. Still bright red under the charred black of its own death.
I hear the sound of the cracking, of the giving way to nature´s desire. Of the integrity of the wholeness that is swallowed by want, by desire, by need.
I smell of smoke and survival. I bear the remnant of my last battle. The scent and the being it clings to saved.
I smell of smoke and wish I´d never seen the fire. But I would´ve burned.