candle

At the base of a wick 

where something extraordinary 

happens, something 

between magic and 

the memory of 

a summer night spent 

sneaking glimpses of your face 

through the crackles of a bonfire 

while my toes cradle sand 

and familiar voices bring to life

off-tune melodies of favorite songs

or adolescent stories 

stretched beyond 

their original narratives of truth. 

And our bodies—bathed

in the glow of the smoke our 

clothes begin to smell of—paint

a timeless image of those who 

recall the past around a fire.

And maybe like those stories of old, 

our love will be remembered

around the flames of another 

era, as I become another  

Helen or Juliet.

Or perhaps

our love will—as the lives we 

lead—glimmer and violently burn 

only to be extinguished, 

the way the tips of your fingers 

slipped beyond the reach 

of mine after the bonfire had 

barely disintegrated 

into unraveling particles of ash.