451°

A stuffed animal.

A photo.

A letter of some forgotten love one summer when her hair smelled of fresh strawberries

And you were still young and vibrant.

Why do we turn our memories into solid forms

Thereby plucking them from our hearts or our minds 

And removing them from the matter where they lay?

Turn to look at the memory 

Of the pain turned from feeling into solid form.

His perfect smile.

Her eyes that sparkle like stars at the edge of Jupiter's moons.

That moment when the wind was at your command and the universe clicked

How often have you returned to look? To feel? 

A small voice deep in the walled recesses of your heart tells you, "No more."

So that smile and those eyes are placed down and warmed by the orange glow

Until the 451st degree takes over and the man, 

Or the woman, 

Or the moment

Slowly ceases to exist thanks to Prometheus's gift. 

One by one,

Little by little, 

The pieces break.

The man falls away.

The woman returns to the stars.

The wind breaks the shackles you placed and returns to its glory,

But not before doing you one last favor and taking the small pieces of your 

Faded moments and scattering them for you. 

And the degrees that freed you await you to feed it more in a misguided attempt to survive.