Every night I sit by a fire,
the only fire that keeps me warm:
red-hot coals,
perpetually burning,
not quite alive, but never really dying;
flaking white ash,
burned beyond recognition,
crumbling into nothing;
and gray smoke,
stinging my eyes, eating up my lungs,
as I breathe in the fumes
and lay beside the fire,
the fire of what was, and
what could have been,
and what never will be.