The kitchen tiles under my feet - the same ice cold marbles
we danced on. It is 2013 all over again, back when you were my hobby, my
hurricane, my silence, my strength; but why do I get weak in my knees when I think
of you?
The fire roars loudly on the stove. If I were cooking my heart, I hope
the flame would be fierce enough to burn down the fences built around it, I
hope the flame would be strong enough to burn the bridges, our memories, our
pain, our hurtful words, our mistakes.
The kitchen tiles under my feet - the
same temperature inside your chest I had loved, when ice meets fire, you’ll
see, you’ll see how it melts until all it has left are the unsaid things that
we fought hard to say. When it melts, you’ll see. “Baby, it was real and we
were the best.”
