That bonfire burned, and with it was the dead and our memories and everything you’ve ever loved, and everything I’ve ever hated. Remorse is gone. Regrets evicted. The ritual brought a vague sense of ecstasy, one that tends to associate itself with acts of passion, for that’s exactly what this is. The flame burns gold, and the smoke runs white. Books caught fire, and pictures immolated. Ink blurring with ash. Memories blurring with ash.
We celebrated around the bonfire, my friends and I. We celebrated about this death. We celebrated about this end.
I know your ghost will haunt me, and I know your memories will leak back into my head and erupt. I know that sleep will escape me when I need it most, and I know that your ghost may live in the wall and crawl in my head every goddamned night.
For now, I banish your existence from my memories. Let them shrivel and burn in this conglomerate of scorched wood and ashen air. Our lungs collapsing with ash. My life collapsing with ash.