Racy

A question lingers on my flaming lips; smoke scorching my lungs, torching them with that slight intake of breath. But I need to ask him – even though I’m sure I know the answer.

I struggle for a second, the question burning me from the outside in and then the courage is there, fighting at the flames; “Are you okay?” My voice is smoky, deep and almost intelligible.

He chokes and splutters and then finally looks at me again with his ocean deep eyes, “No.” His voice drowning out the smell of me burning, of the ash falling; his voice could sink my heart to an icy depth. But then with his gurgly, waterlogged voice he asks, “Are you?”

Am I?

 

I don’t know.

      I don’t know.

           I don’t know.

                   I don’t know. 

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