The question that refuses to answer itself
has stopped being a question.
It is the cherry-red ember
that stayed lit,
-
after the song ended,
after the beloved fled,
after the Wall fell,
after fifty years of Tuesdays
and perfect sandwiches
and every possible collapse
of every possible self,
-
refusing to explain why it still burns
when there is no longer anything to burn.
-
It is where
emptiness and form
consummated their illegal marriage
-
then refused to sign the divorce papers
even after one of the partners
disappeared over the horizon.
-
It is the silence when the music stops
and the room is suddenly too big
and the heart is suddenly too small
and both are suddenly the same size.
-
The ember has no name.
It doesn’t ask “What now?”
or “who was that?”
or “is this the end?”
It only glows.
-
So we don’t answer it anymore.
We just keep it warm
with breath, song, sunrise,
with the occasional reckless glance
at another pair of eyes
where the flames still dance
even though we swore we put them out
years ago.
-
The question has answered itself
by becoming
a permanent wound
that feels too much like home.
-
There is nothing left to do.
Nothing was ever required.