Sillohettes on the Wall

I thought I felt butterflies swarming in my stomach.
Their wings grazing against my insides.
But they were just illusions.
Silhouettes on a wall made by your hands in the glow of a candle.
I thought you had lit it in a gesture of romance.
Like the long stemmed ones at the table between two lovers.
Truth was, you simply forgot to blow it out when you left, the shadows still dancing on the wall making me believe I was not alone.
I thought the flame meant there was a chance, a hope left for us.
But you were just careless.
After all, who leaves a candle burning in such a small room?
Because that's what we are.
A one roomed shack made of old wooden planks, begging to be made into kindling.
Despite what the poets may tell you, there is nothing beautiful about fire.
The ash and smoke it leaves behind fills my lungs and I cough up regret.
I was foolish to believe I could withstand the heat.
You burned us to the ground and with it you scorched the wings of the butterflies.
They no longer flutter in my stomach.