For those of us gripping the splintery branch,
gritting our teeth and waiting—white-knuckled,
treading through the ashes—still fiery.
For those of us left with the rest of it,
heavy-hearted and losing—frozen
in the aftershock, all senses burning yet.
What's left is us tracing from memory
your shape—fingers numbing and weary,
cutting us open just to see.
For those of us pacing, memorizing
floorboards and breathing the
smoke-filled rooms—considering for too
long: the loneliness
of the hallway closet,
top shelf,
that box
left to hold all the things
that meant nothing to you.
What's left is this dizzying spin.
Its hypnotic, eldritch doom—relentless.
Still, I'll always wave my flag for you,
even if it takes me.