without a flame the night is endless.
dependent on the sun and the belief that it will rise and rise and…
without a catalyst, the idea of flame is nothing but a dark, undulating shadow,
but this catalyst?
with your words burning wild and the very walls we’ve struggled to build blazing?
is it worth the heat on our faces? the blush of excess?
is it worth the sudden illumination of the way through?
this beauty, these murmured metaphors;
this flame with all its damning crackle, its insatiable hunger, was built on the bones of something that once seemed to shine,
something that felt whole,
something that whispered into our unbelieving ears the promise of beautiful.
once the fire alights you never know when the borders will wash clean.