Bonfire

I ache, the late nights and early mornings and falling asleep again and too much booze and the chili fries I ate too fast just now. Birds are chirping but it's not even three in the morning, but what do they know. My shoes bang against the cracking sidewalk, worn wooden heels, echoes against all those locked doors. I open mine, the heat is on, it's so warm, I've been walking so quickly, I ate those fries so fast. I forego badly needed water and start stripping en route to my bed. My jacket, shirt, my undershirt, pants, hair, everything smells like fire. A bonfire, the burning ash, the smoke that always finds its way to me. How does it always find its way to me? I leave it in a pile, pull my pants off over my shoes, kick those off, a piece of heel falls, bits of ashes cling to my wardrobe. I look in the mirror and bits of ash cling to me, a scattered Ash Wednesday, and I think about what I believe in. What hope I keep clinging to like so much ash. And I fall into bed, and that scent stains the sheets, and as I fall asleep I know that it's the only thing I know.