The Book of Weston

Doom was written in the red clouds

we sat beneath, weighed down by the gravity

of an old truth. You lay your head on

my shoulder, maybe

to prevent it from being pulled away.

Something from the past was tugging

at your mind. You told me later.

Silent under the heavy sky, we sat

next to the flaming lake and watched it smolder.

Whatever had sparked between us, now:

two glowing embers in our chests.

I felt you trying to extinguish yours.

You were quiet, focused.

An old flame approached from a distance

and two flames can't coexist.

One is consumed by the other.

The clouds stole some core of hope in me, lost

in swirling mouths of deep consuming red.

It was relief to watch them die in dusk.

From your eyes, a prophecy slipped silent.

In a few short days, I would touch

your dying ember to my lips

and taste my fate.