A thief of warmth, or, the candle.
I looked and saw a beautiful something
had landed between the crooks of my elbows.
She was pale and pink and spotted with earthy orange and she had hair that burned the deep umber of a sunset seen through the leaflets of flame of a beach bonfire.
She stood, and looked,
locked between the creases of my arms and my palms and my strong fingers and she pressed herself into my body until her nutmeg eyes disappeared out of my focus.
My lips tingled with the warmth of a misfallen spark, more adrenaline than feeling, and she kissed me so I kissed her back and held her tight even though I knew she was stealing the warmth I so carelessly exuded.
I tried to convince myself that I needed that heat, my precious byproduct of my living and breathing and experiencing, but she took it and I gave it gleefully.
I had given warmth all my life and my flame burned low and it wickered and slid between the sheets of blackness that surrounded me. Many took from my warmth. Few returned it.
Feeling worried, I lost myself in those pnuematic lips and came to with that small giggle she gave with her wide smile. She thought she looked goofy and I did too but I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Her lips shone like heated wax and I wanted nothing but to dip my finger in and coat myself with that burning, rejuvenating curiosity. It was then I realized that this fallen candle, this thief of warmth,
was indeed replenishing and reshaping my tallowed and melted center.
All became smooth and my fibers of consciousness spun into sleek silk that caressed the idea of warmth and contentedness like the sway of a glass-boxed taper.
I drank her in with the goblets of my irises and let her slip inside my pupils until I had to leave and her lips consumed me again.
I was warm now. Replenished and recasted.
A candle, created from my own flame.
And that night I dreamt
of holding something beautiful in my arms.