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The Want Fire

The want fire—burning.
Not exactly warm—heatless, even,
but active, neutrinos pushing from within 
at the cell’s thin wall; they exit in small delight: 
eyelash flutter, sigh, tremor at the lips’ corner. 

We sit, not-quite-touching. 
With each exhalation 
your breath becomes mine—a delicate fuel, 
like a feather windblown and dancing,
free of its body. In its earthliness, 
sun-warmed, final. But becoming. 
Something else, vital,
impossible to hold.