Makes sense to be hopebound, sure as summer rain, trapping us inside.
We stay here a long time, (how long, I can’t say), our backs turned against dark, sleeping in each other’s arms, afraid of love, of the few years of fluency before the long silence.
Then, one night, we worry there’s not enough warmth in this place.
My rock, your rock, striking for heat, striking for a spark, rapid-fire questions in the dead of night.
We hold the fire as though it’s a gift, flame ready to leap, hungry for burning.
Our forms framed in the yellow second-story window, blackened.
