Burnt. It was how I made my eggs – which always left me thinking of you. When did I tire of the highborn drama, the ranting and raving? Was that just yesterday? You left me carcinogenic with a rotted out core. Used up and adrift far from the shore. Burnt like my toast, unable to be salvaged with a scrape of the knife. Soul hungry and weary with nothing left to give. And yet there is a spark, a space that cannot be touched, a place where burns cannot leave a mark. Here where I stand, on the opposite shore.