What Color Was the Fire?

Remember when we burned so bright
the neighbors complained about the glare?

What color was that flame—
red like anger,
blue like sorrow,
gold like everything we thought we’d keep?

I still smell the smoke in my hair
on days I swear I’ve moved on.

I ask the mirror:
Was it worth the ashes?

The reflection never answers.

But my skin remembers heat,
remembers how close we came
to consuming each other whole.

I don’t regret the burn.

I regret believing
fire could ever learn to be gentle.

-LR 🖤

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