Killing the Fire

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How do you put out a fire without water?

Without dirt to bury the flames?

It’s too hot to contain in your hands,

So hot you feel you’re already burned.

All you want is to be rid of it forever.

But whenever you get close, it scorches your soul.

~

If you turn away, memories of the heat are inescapable,

You find yourself drawing close once more.

Always, there is a strange hope that perhaps this time the flames won’t burn,

Maybe comforting embers will warm you instead.

But the sparks still fly and the smoke stings your eyes.

~

There’s only one way to put out a fire like this.

Time.

Smother the glow with hours and months and years.

Then one day you’ll look back at that corner of your heart that used to be ablaze, and only see darkness.

The cool, calm darkness that accompanies peace.

Dear Best Friend

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Dear Best Friend,

I don’t think that you fully understand how much you mean to me. I don’t think that I even fully understand. But God really knew what He was doing when He allowed our paths to cross.

I know that I can annoy you at times, but you think that most of my antics are endearing. And when you tease me, I never doubt your love like I doubt so many other things and people.

Sometimes I’ll start smiling and everyone around me thinks it’s for no reason. But it’s because I thought of one of our inside jokes. I love how much you make me laugh.

Whether we talk every day or every week…whether we see each other once a week or once a year…I know that you’ll always be right here next to me. Because I keep you in my heart.

So thank you, Best Friend. For sticking by me when things are falling apart and when they’re falling into place. For checking up on me. For taking the time to know me as well as you know yourself. For calling me so that I can hear your voice, and visiting me so that I can feel your hugs.

I pray that I can be half as good a friend to you as you’ve been to me.
Because Best Friend, you’re not really my friend.
You’re my family.

~Caliya

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A Dry Spell is cast,
and you are now its slave.

Rain is refused admission,
echos of thunder far away.

 Pieces of your soul begin to die, left so long unattended.

 Lines in the ground become cracks, openings for pain to come through.

 There are still echos of hope, but they are growing faint, for the rain seems forever out of reach.

 Perhaps only an ocean will break this Dry Spell.