A Story About Burning

Like a mood ring, when the sky turns cherry red and your eyes stay dark mulch brown. That we can name the colors means that we understand. That we understand means that we can journey together, past the looming mountains that were faded into the clouds, past the round, old mountains that bleed into the sky, past the whiny sea asking for forgiveness, past the forgetful people wrinkling in the sun. Like a mood ring, when the sea turns transparent and your eyes pierce through screens. That we can see through time and space and water means that we can feel each other. Feel skin on skin or hair skimming shoulder or tension building in thighs or the air thick with words — vibrations — fleeting images of consuming white rice — fleeting feelings of fullness. Like a mood ring, when my skin turns into liquid light and your eyes drink themselves golden. That we can trade light for gold means that we can trade darkness for coal.