Phoenix riddle

I fly
and burn myself
to ashes.
Broken
pro
-mises
my nest;
short days and (too) long nights
fill my lungs like
cold-air gasps
of a desperate last breath,
(and the memory of a first).
Your thoughts fall
slowly,
and one-by-one,
like feathers,
cresting my head.
Waking me.
Today,
I died, lover.
And rose again, the same.

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