This Internal Arson

Light the tip. Bring the filter to my mouth. Inhale.

I had a wife once.

Exhale. Let the smoke come and go.

Her face brought to mind minute brushes of oil on a bare canvas, the potential for perfection effortless and evident in her artistic eyes.

Watch the smoke spiral out my window, greeting ocean breezes as its new neighbour in the street of wind.

In her profession, she enlightened newcomers with business speeches. She asked for little but an audience. In return, patrons supported her, kept her economically afloat. In our private life, she enlightened me with passion plays and asked for little but my affection. In return, I supported her, asking for equal exchange. We balanced ourselves in this harbour, our love our lighthouse.

Inhale. Feel the smoke sting my throat. Feel the heat rush to my head. Exhale, dump the ash.

Were we to love forever, her lies could have been truth. Were that to happen, the world could have changed in not just ambition. However, there's nothing just about ambition.

Pace myself. Ride out the singe of smell.

I don't know how it happened.

Don't let the fire die. Inhale. My patronage keeps this boat ablaze in exchange for the pain of the trade.

One day, I woke up to an empty bed. A quick inspection of introspection revealed an empty house. My belongings were alone, every gathering and artificial artefact of hers gone.

Embrace the inner warmth, for in this cold climate, it's all I'm going to get.

Only two traces of her remained: Our letters sent to each other while abroad, and a revue she had been writing in private.

Inhale. Let the smoke linger inside me, clouding my thoughts with newfound relaxation. Exhale. Time stands still.

I scanned them for an answer.

Dump the ash.

No answer awaited me in those tomes.

Listen to the seagulls caw; nature's one big mating call.

No answer awaited me in town.

Enjoy the night sky, the overbearing blackness of humility. I am insignificant.

I inquired about her to her fellow salespeople of the market. Little progress awaited me there besides one man's harsh "Don't ask about her, Thornton."

Inhale. Don't let the fire die. I'm all it's got. Its kiss may be vicious, but who's to say I'm a saint?

Home did not greet me that night; it only regarded me a victim, the walls dismissing me and the doors blowing me off. Bed felt like an offensive attempt at retelling old stories. Sleep came late, passed quickly, forgave nothing.

Exhale.

Days passed, and I spent my evenings watching for her at our window.

Pace myself.

Weeks passed, and I found myself inquiring less, confiding to fewer acquaintances about my problem. It was none of their concern.

Inhale.

Months passed, and I wondered if it was any of mine.

Exhale. One more drag, let this misty friend stay a little longer.

Eventually, I stopped watching for her. I may never know what happened to her. I might not want to know. If she came back, would I even ask? I dreamed of a time she returned, and she had replied to my inquiry by disappearing once more, never to return this time. How fragile must trust be? How clear be its rules? Are they set in stone, or do they change with the sea?

Inhale. Feel the flame at my fingertips, set fire to my insides for fun. At least this internal arson has its purpose.

I had a wife once. Now I refuse to even consider myself a widow.

Exhale. Dump the ash. Extinguish the cigarette, toss it out the window. Littering's a crime unless it suits self-sustenance. Take deep breaths, I'm good now.