So you fuel it.
And it is hot
And big for my eyes.
And troubling. And beautiful.
It is because I contained it.
Locked it down and drained it.
So it was soft, yellow, and warm.
It now threatens, but I am yet to be burned.
And I hate the cliche of fire.
The first known metaphor, the beginning invention.
But yes, I think of sun and light and reflection
Of us, you, me.
There was no spark.
No lightning strike.
A cigar left in a wet pile of leaves.
A joint between the covers.
Red ash under the rug.
Grown, to a comfortable level
And now it keeps me up at night
Worried the house may burn down.
Funny that it tickles.
Funny that it is distant.
But any way we decide, there will need
To be fire.
The shivers, trembling, palpitating
No longer have the cover of softness or harshness.
It will just be dry, and if not cold,
It will just be.
And being has never been enough.