Flame

I have set out to write a love poem, having had poetry in my mind all day with you. But the poem has vanished, and every word feels like it cheapens the music that is living on the tip of my tongue. So this is a poem not wanting to be chased–all spirit and summer winds on the throat.

You’re in the next room and I’d like to dance to this song with you. Today we cried into one another’s necks about 2008. Tonight I told you how I would’ve handled your addiction to starting fires–all candle-gazing and bonfires on sand,

and we’d kick and dance and sing and cry. Our feet would be black by the end of the night–all ash and dirt and drum. I’d show you the respect that is to be had for spark and ember, and how it exists inside of all of us–burning, waiting, alive.