It is like holding a match in a Texas wind, cupped in a hand that waits until it burns...waits until the flesh is slightly torn, reminding of the moment in a searing heat the scorch that you can leave on me.
It is the attempt to write something new, to strike the flint inside of me and burst forth with a new light to draw your eye. To swallow your gaze. To attract, to assign, to cause a stir, cause a hope. To touch briefly, perhaps even warmly, and light tiny fires inside your mind. Tiny fires on your skin.
It is the dare, to alight and hold until it either burns or extinguishes. These attempts...sometimes the match never lights. Sometimes I know you look past me, you go on without me. You misremember. You forget. You grow cold, you cool. Your space becomes darker, your room unlit. Your day needs no brightening, no candles, no fever. No warmth, no heat, no need.
I want to stir the air around you, push the gray fog into a corner where it can remain. I want to feel you drawn into, a gravitation, a tide responding to the moon in full light. I want to come out of the corner of your eye, a sunrise on a horizon, and feel the speed in your chest. Remove the dark, at least temporarily...fleetingly, like the snap of a match.
I want my heat to pull you closer, a fire in a desert, a sun-warmed rock, a beam through a window. For you to lay. And let your skin bathe in the remarkable, bathe in the unforgettable...bathe in the draw that you have on me. And let me warm your waters, let me set blood boiling. Let me disturb your sleep.
Incendiary.
I pray for the burn of you to repair my mind...the scorched-earth your eyes have wreaked upon me, the eyes the color of a forest ravaged by fire.
Dark brown...evening colors...stunningly piercing and elegantly poised. That I wait to light on fire perhaps...
With hand-cupped flames...and one match left.
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