In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Burnt.” (AKA the prompt that won’t die)
Love lost is like a burnt house.
I roam from room to room, assessing the damage. So much damage. The pieces of us are scattered, strewn about carelessly. Remnants. I take on the task of sifting through, searching for something that I can salvage and reclaim.
I find that some things have survived the fire virtually unscathed. I pick these pieces up and carry them with me. I cherish them. I am thankful for them. Lucky survivors are they.
Other pieces are damaged, but still whole. Maybe they are a little scorched around the edges or torn. Broken but repairable. They have changed but their essence remains the same. Here I must decide what I can keep and mend and what is better left behind. The pieces that I keep and mend will assimilate into my new normal. So I must choose wisely.
And then there are those pieces that are gone completely, consumed by the fire. Disintegrated. It is almost as if they never existed. But I know that they existed, they live in my memories. I miss some of those pieces dearly. I mourn them. For others, maybe their absence is a blessing in disguise. Maybe I am better off without them, whether I realize it or not.
Our love is a burnt house. An empty shell of what once was.