The Smoke That Follows

Consider first the innocent flame born of the cross-sparks between our gazes. Consider second that kisses can ignite cotton. Then after withering to the floor consider that you once stood. But instead of my intense crazy please try and see only the why. Close your eyes and imagine the ungraspable truth about smoke, and why when putting puzzles together we sort our pieces first into two piles: one for edges, and one for middles (except when those puzzles are ourselves). Imagine my decision to "lose it" less of a decision please. Try and see it as me sorting my edge pieces all to the frontline so I can seem as usual as possible, while silmutaneously reverting inwardly with whatever precious middles I find to horde feverishly for the rest of forever. See it as the smoke that follows the flame. Watch it twist and seemingly disperse. With savage pokes I rummage through the ashy mounds recently abandoned by their flames. I am digging for a sign of the sparks from before. Being a man, I wonder if ours were as bright as the brightest of all other sparks, post and prior. Being a coward I never ask. Whatever the answer we both know that our middles got mixed up long ago. That's how I know that without me no matter where you go the best you'll ever be is busy sorting.