Was there ever a passion that remained a secret? Was there ever a love that didn’t end in fire—in the explosion of fireworks, a blinding spectrum of lights that warned everyone else to stay away, that cradled you close in its church of light and warmth and feeling—or in the cold embers of a love extinguished by a jealous wind that proved to be stronger, or by a betraying, blinding fistful of sand that tries to cover up everything that was once alive and breathing, or by a shower of tears when one lover has a change of heart and ceases to be a lover?
Was there ever smoke without fire—smoke that warned of the danger, smoke that warned of a fire that raged out of control, smoke that curled and swirled and danced in exotic beautiful patterns between the earth and the stars? Was there ever a feeling beating in your heart, or was it pretense all along? Was there ever the whiff of smoke, or was it my mind playing tricks on me? Was there ever the stoking of the flames, or was my right hand branded by a different kind of burn?