Beatrice Gone

Andrea Bustillo (she/he/they)

I let the flames of passion consume me whole
until there was naught but ashes left in disaster’s wake.

But you – 
You did not collect me,
nor put me in an urn,
nor grow me into a tree,
nor set me off within a firework.
​
You didn’t even look as I laid there,
helplessly begging you to bring me back to life,
to cry as I filtered through your fingers
while you tried to grasp at what was left of me.

I was foolish to think you’d do that,
in my memory,
when you had never given any indication 
of loving me at all.

But I –
I will laugh seeing your smile
in my memory;
for the few times I saw it,
it was the most beautiful moment of my life.

Even if,
in your memory,
it was just a flicker that died
as soon as it began to burn.