I didn’t feel as close to the fire as I actually was.
So I never realized how burnt I had become.
I was removed by a polarizing lack of loss. Suddenly a tourist in my own city as it crumbled around me. After it had been built before me. Without me.
This ire wasn’t mine.
I still don’t notice the char until I’m reminded by the date.
The month and day have acquired a mute reverence
More hollowed than the monotonous mark of the passing of time.
I never felt the heat of rage. But I did sink.
There was a terrible fall. There was damage.
There is now a thick layer of scar I cannot penetrate for excavation.
I tried to write about it. I tried to sing about it.
But I felt impertinent waxing poetic about a fire I didn’t feel.
Songwriting wasn’t the way in. It may never open for me that way.
I am waiting for the sting.
still waiting to feel the glow. The heat. Anything other than sheer weight.
Just to be able to write an honest word.