THE GUEST IV

Crashing.

A fire starter. Your guest is an arsonist. And you, a pyromaniac. Who’d have seen that coming? The stars, the moon, the sun, the water, they are all laughing. Obtuse as you are. Your guest is holding the fire, you are a moth infatuated. The table is burning, the chairs are smoldering tinder, and there is not a care for any of it at all. The destruction of the familiar, to bring in new growth. Who knew your guest was a gardener too? But the fire is a threat. Can’t burn the house down. There’s so many others in it. Your guest is unabashed with their truth, and you return the verbal assault in kind. A lashing of tongues, a contentious agreement in baseline desire. Stark confessions of long standing obligations. But the eyes do not lie. There is no concession here. No solid ground. All the chairs will wobble. And you will cackle with delight. Laughter is medicine after all. Your new guest has a secret chair, black as night, tucked neatly beneath your table. A hidden comfort on the darker nights, when the clouds gather, and the lightning strikes. Illuminating a silhouette in the night, distant, yet always infinitely familiar. An echo from the past beating into the future, layers upon layers, upon infinite layers. Folding you under like violent waves crashing, making foam out of your plunder. 

END PTIV