You spread like wildfire, each tree engraved with a memory of you.
When I walk through the forest of thoughts, I can't help but touch the scars on the bark.
I can't help but think of you.

You did nothing wrong. I built the campfire poorly. I watched as you grew larger and larger.
I didn’t try to put it out. I watched, mesmerized by the beauty.
How poetic;the forest I’d built, overcome with flames.
My perfect sanctuary, altered by an external factor that I’d brought in.

Altered, not ruined. You didn’t ruin anything. You changed it.
So when I walk through this forest,the forest that was once peaceful, my hands touch the scarred bark, the leaves and ash crunching under my feet.
I don’t hate or resent you. I look back at the beauty in what I was able to see.

I can grow more trees; I can water more plants. But I can’t witness that again.
Nothing can recreate what I witnessed that day.
No fire can burn as hot as yours, spread as fast as yours,
captivate me as much as you did.

So, thank you for letting me witness your beauty.
I pray that next time, we’ll both be in control.