Since when did the burning
                                     sooth?
Going on, I don't know,
                               how many years?
Since we saw each
                          otherwise, how could we have known?
How could we have seen beyond each other's eyes if we'd never
                        strangled what was, for us
All that was. For us
                       all, that is,
For us, no more
                       than fingers pulled back from a hot skillet's handle;
No more than scratches on my back.
                            I can't see,
Don't even know, if you left
                                     scars, yet, running my fingers over them,
I can still feel the warmth of blood.
                                                 I can still hear the softness of your voice
Searing my soul to ashes. Since when did the soothing
                                                                          burn?