Singed Hair

There is a flame lodged inside my rib cage. Sometimes it burns brightly. Other times it is but a flicker.

I suspect that when we die, the flame extinguishes but its essence remains. It merely takes on a different form. It is smoke, it is steam, it is a faint trail of singed hair.

This essence dissipates and converges, like a flock of starlings that shift with the grace of fine chiffon. When they converge, their density reveals their very existence. When they pull apart, their slim profiles trick the mind into not believing.

But a fire always lives on. A flame hovers and scans the landscape below. Waiting for the next entity to embody. And when it does the pure, baby-blue spark of a matchstick’s big bang holds the promise of inciting a million songs.

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