Look, a fire.
Could it have been them?
Could it have been those beautiful Sinclair children?
They set fire to a symbol.
To ivory statues, precious silks, and cashmere sweaters.
Warm blueberry muffins, buttered croissants, and beach plum jams, poisoned with flames.
The bark of gulls muffled by smoke.
Tennis courts sprinkled with ash, branches scattered over island paths.
They were liars.
They all were.
Now the secrets that kept them close,
Were burned to the ground.