though the empty spaces they leave can fuel one.
My dreams are combustible now,
thoughts like kindling.
The moths don't care, but the clock does:
the flames lick my fingertips
but the hands just tick.
I can only look up.
The lights flicker in the sky and at my heels.
I don't look back, but I know my footprints to be ash.
I feed the beast, and I no longer feel alone.