In the late night, alone, before sleep, I make fire, rubbing
sweet memories together until – as back then – they spark, the need not to keep
warm this time of year, at least, not warmth in the way I could in the depths
of winter, I rub hard to inspire fire out of what seems like long dead coals,
folding and unfolding photographs of you, as inspiration, desperate to fill the
dark spaces of this lonely night with a least a bit of light, an illusion,
inspiration I would lack without having had you in my life, if not now, then
then when it all seemed to matter not, slowly, one long stroke after the next, until
I feel the surge and wait for the eruption, only thinking of you can bring.
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