Tenants of a Burning House
I call across the dark to the youngest among us—
not to scold, to signal.
Some of you hand yourselves over
to the first voice that sounds certain—
already alive, just buying time.
It’s an occupational hazard,
this not-having-a-place:
no lease for your own body,
no keys to your own want.
You didn’t pay the rent on my expectations—good.
Eviction can be freedom.
You left without a note.
Space still counts if you take it.
A genie uncorked, you moved among constellations.
You admired my glow; truth is, I was close to gone—
fire flatters a body burning out.
Where do flames look
when the whole building is lit?
We stand inside what we’re consuming,
history following the endless staircase,
passion and hunger stacked like dry wood.
We keep returning to the same address—
ash in the foyer, names written in smoke.
This is the hardest part:
walking out empty-handed
and calling it a rescue.
Outside, air.
Outside, sky enough for a roof.
What you leave behind
doesn’t keep you.
What you carry forward
doesn’t have to burn.