I don’t recall the first time I heard your name, but I assure you, it stuck.
The tales of your talent ravished my ears and left them ringing.
Although, your wonder was kept cloaked by heartache and sorrow.
The picture painted for me was black and red through and through.
With every breath she spoke of you, my muscles would tense and body cringe.
You were no one I would share a table with;
You were no man I would look in the eye.
Even so, you never left; you were always right there.
You stood tall in the ashes of the house you burnt down.
The smile on your face windowed the oblivion in your soul.
Do you realize what you have done? Do you know where you stand?
Your footprints are never light and sank deep within the ashes.
Please wipe off your feet and kindly return from where you came.
You finally left for a while and I began to help raise this house.
I passed brick by brick; stone by stone I watched Him rebuild.
The labor was tiresome and my body ached day after day.
You managed to destroy much, but the structure is taking shape.
You see, you burnt down the walls, but the foundation holds true.
A heart you once seared and broke, pumps anew.
The day was Sunday and the hour was late as you watched from the street.
In the flickering street lights you stood admiring the beauty your eyes were once drawn to.
This house was strange, as it was both new and old to your senses.
From her staircase inside, I sat and watched your every move.
Your stupor left you stumbling and babbling at a rapid rate:
“Was this not the house I set fire to? Did I not drop the match?”
That you did.
You awoke the morning from its slumber with a knock on her door.
Tired eyed and late for work, she unlatched the door and let you in.
She let in the arsonist.
Breath deep now, my fellow man, for I have words you must hear:
We’ve never met, you and I, but with a heavy heart I call you friend.
Her compassion ripped my heart open wide and left my hands shaking.
The scales have toppled in favor of love; genuine but undeserved love.
With the lens wiped clean, my perspective regained.
My heart aches as I write these words to you: “Dear Arsonist, I love you.”
Words my lips refused to utter, have now fallen out of my mouth.
Not only do I love you, but I envy you with everything I am.
My heart spews jealousy at your flowing words and strumming.
How can you, the great Arsonist, be invited into the house you just burnt down?
I am beside myself as I watch you lighting matches in her only home.
Sitting there on her couch, you strike them one by one and let them self-extinguish.
Be careful friend, for the slightest quiver could set that house ablaze.
I pray you admire the magnificent craftsmanship and value what cost the builder spent.
He labored fiercely rebuilding this masterpiece and holds it dear to His heart.
Take caution my friend, for a small spark wreaks much havoc.
Bite off your tongue and love this work of art; She is worth it.