That red hot speck
at the end of the cigar,
burning like a heart,
estranged,
you, a darkness
defined by streaks of light around your face,
a moment ago,
lost , watching the line of smoke,
wispy, tall, merging with the dark,
and now,
a fixation on the lengthening line of ash
gathering steadily at the close end,
closing in on you.
Do not, do not stare
at the burnt out end of the cigar.
Call me , call me once again.
I will come and clear the ash
gathered in the ash tray all through the night
.
Let this cigar not be a cigar,
but the torch we carried all along,
a baton passed from hand to hand.
We need to burn again like a torch.
Let millions of fireflies arise,
and glow like stars from this torch.

May 20, 2016

Originally shared by Tanya Dimitrova