I have always love
the flame that you make—
a warmth that hums against my skin,

soft as whispered smoke,
kind enough
to forget it could burn.

The same kind you wield
around so desperately
toward those frozen far too long to thaw.

They were already
too deep in cold to ever feel
the love you were told

was not enough—by the people
who wore the skin of
the new generations of love.

I wanted to touch you,
but I cannot let you light so long.
not before—you turn into ashes.  

I wanted to light my own bones
and radiate the same kindness
you burn so bright

and glow the same
pinkish red of love
too tender for everyone else but you.