and with that, he put the ember out in the center of his palm, a pain to be carried everywhere. A momento to the nonversation, to half-listening, and to feigned interest. A small simulacra of the mutual, the mentholated, the swirling smoke staining the ceiling in benign passing of time. A manilla mask of desire. A tonguing soreness, piqued at will with the wringing of hands -- a ringing informed by the need to grasp, to reach, and to touch. The scream, the skin-hungry ache of connection separated by a miasma of falsity.

here it lives now, more bitter than sweet. yet, undeniably a collection of both. the iresome sizzling of the neglected sins of flesh, left to cool.

 

"we did it again,"

spake, to the quiet birch, wild and old, and of few words.

"we did it again. we gave just a little bit too much, didn't we?"

with the clumsy rickets of unmedicated age, we sat with our backs together like strangers. Just me, the birch -- the thrumming timeless of elhrim -- alone, creaking against a blu-lit dawn.

and all along, that ember had been mine to squeeze.