Flame Thrower

"And there stood Basta with his foot already on another dead body, smiling. Why not? He had hit his target, and it was the target he had been aiming for all along: Dustfinger's heart, his stupid heart. It broke in two as he held Farid in his arms, it simply broke in two, although he had taken such good care of it all these years." Cornelia Funke, Inkspell

I wrote a letter to a flame thrower detailing 

the way I've been playing with flames. 

They've overcome my thoughts with a deep, 

deep red shadow and they've left bite marks 

on my skin where old blemishes used to be.

I long for the warmth, but it's never long 

before I forget that fire can still scorch the

one who gave it life. In the desperation fueled 

by my fascination, I allow the flames to become

unconstrained, and that is when they burn deeper 

than skin, deeper than my threshold is for pain. 

Anticipation filled me as I waited for wise words 

from the one who knew flames all to well. 

Upon arrival, it was obvious the envelope had been 

licked with fire and as I opened it, I was greeted by 

one sentence written in ashes from the flame thrower:

"Many, in the midst of hopefulness, have a 
tendency to confuse sparks for flames."
Was it in the search for something to hope for
that I found the forbidden fire--a sort of flame
that refuses to die? Or have I only stumbled
on sparks using naivety to conceal its disguise?

The flame thrower seemed to handle the flames
with ease, never allowing one spark to fly out of
sync with the rest. Yet all I can do is spend
candle-lit evenings alone contemplating why I
can't contain the flames like the flame thrower.
Perhaps it's the echo of my mother's voice saying
she used to believe in love lingering in the back
of my mind with other lost hopes. In response to seeing
how her fire and many others were ill-met with the
breath of life, dear flame thrower, all I'm asking you
is to teach me how to keep mine alive.