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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.
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.
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