I stare into a shrinking candle’s flickering flame on my dusty, wax stained rug, on empty, still, Friday nights.
The same spots flash across my open eyes, and the dancing light blushes my checks, just like the burning sun does, on lazy, swingset Spring times afternoons. When it’s warm enough to wear my blue pooka dot dress, and cool enough to forget deodorant.
The flame’s pale yellowish glow resembles the exciting bonfire, that twists aluminum beer cans, and ignites under the simple minded hands that pour cheap vodka on the waves of light.
The kind of fire that exists because of the burning desire for discreet rebellion and extreme belligerence in backyard forests where cold sixteen year olds dry hump, until the cops come.
Through layers and layers of Winter zippers.
Under your warm, torn blankets, your chapped lips find mine, on colorless Sunday mornings.
I rub your hands hard between mine, begging for friction.
My clammy fingertips grip the wooden stick, striking the phosphorous tip with the surface of your curly hair covered chest... always too gently to spark.
You always fall before me..
To sleep that is.
When my nights in this bed first began, and you would fall with your arm tucked under the crease of my side, I would tenderly return in to yours, in fear that I might crush it under my sleep, or make it numb while you dream, or it would feel trapped at 3 AM.
I wanted it there.
A tiny part of you to take with me while I dreamt. To touch, and know it’s yours.
Now it’s subtle presence tenses my softening gaze while I try to sleep.
and I lose track of all of my sheep.
But every time I move it to your sleeping side, I convince my intentions that it’s for your arms sake. I bring my self back to those first nervous nights.
When I would turn my back to you, only in hopes that you would touch my spine.