In the middle of the night, I am on fire.

The house is quiet, and I can hear the rush of the city below me, nothing grows here. We are laying in the ruins of us, sleeping soundly in the ashes, the smoke clouding our lungs. I know you are awake, and you know I am too. But we just lie here, backs to each other, heat radiating from the hurled blows. I wonder then if this is worth it, like I have wondered time and time again. I wonder if maybe there is something else out there, something lovely and new and shiny. You fit me like an old shoe, curved to the shape of my body and attune to the rhythm of my step. I can feel your heart pounding even though I’m not close enough to hear it. We have lost the ability to hear I think, our heads clouded with mundane things and promises of success and betterment. We are clouded by rage and suffering that means nothing. We are not suffering. We are sleeping under a roof in a bed and forced to realize that this may be as good as it gets, this may be as good as we get. There is cheering from the street, and I can hear people honking their horns. I forget what kind of celebration there is tonight, and here it remains quiet.