A few nights ago the sun painted the sky a dying orange. I watched a phoenix dissipate in the hot summer air; its feathers nothing but tendrils of black smoke and rising embers from flame. I smelled burnt ozone for days after. The scent seared into my senses- my thoughts went back to you and how you never forgot the taste of the sky. Even when your wings were reduced to ashes. You never forgot flight.
Neither did I.
However, the self is not something a match can be taken to. Should your past burn, your future shines two-thirds as bright.
Do the math with me, dearest. You are one being complete as is, comprised of three parts: past, present, and future. One divided by three is a third. Subtract a third from one and you get two-thirds.
I know it is hard to live with. I remember lying in the ashes of my own wings and thinking I’d be better off setting my past alight. I am glad I didn’t. There would’ve been nothing to rise from.
So dearest, grab a handful of embers, curl the smoke around your fingers and mold new wings. Shake the ashes from your body, wipe the soot from your eyes, and rise.