The house is
burning.
I've set it alight with
my matches, dozens and
dozens of them, the
small sticks
precursors
to life and danger.
I am watching it
burn from my
picnic blanket on the
grass quietly,
smiling.

The flames lick
the sky
curling out the windows
in ecstasy.
I will stay and
watch it fall,
burn itself to ash
as I drink my
strawberry wine.

It's a beautiful house,
even as it slowly
destroys itself,
Victorian and regal and
aged.
Memories lurk in
its corners
countless days and years
that slowly dissipate into
smoke and drift
to the ground
as dust,
that will be
blown away by the
sweet wind on
my face and
in my cup.

My face is hot,
blistered by what I've
created,
as the attic falls,
crumbling in on itself
it's eaves curling
like the flames. The ash
drifts into my bottle
sullying
its strawberry taste.

Next comes the second
floor, the
glass windows shattering
on impact as their
sills turn and
burn, the proud ivy
falling to the
ground in long tendrils
of tenacity.

The sun has long since set, but
I can see by the
light of my embers,
the coals that stay aglow.
It seems to be snowing,
as I lay on
my picnic blanket
and close my eyes, feeling
the house settle
on my eyelids
and tangle in my
lashes
like a still smoldering blanket.

But I know better.

This night is for ashes
and my strawberry
wine.