The sun spoke

soft lies in the morning

as I lifted my head

to revisit a world,

whose ashes

would be scattered,

hollow and lonely,

clinging for breathe

in the desperate

summer air.

You rest your warm hand on my thigh. It is supposed to be comforting; a reassuring touch from a loving parent.

I try not to flinch, but I do so anyway. Your warmth feels nothing like what my friends spoke of. Instead, your warmth is but a reminder of a time when hands lingered to places they should never have. Your warmth is a trail of molten lava, slowly making its way to my heart, only to leave behind disgust in the form of ashes.

The ashes, even when blown away, somehow always find a way to return.