Flame: The only time my body was hurt we skipped over it so lightly but now intentional noise clutters the background, if only in the brittle times. For five days or three years I wanted so badly to be awake in the presence of that the dreams were a stand in, were a loud false voice, such waste. A focal point and vestige, between the surfaces is all reflection, either up or down, but in the fire is every which way.


Flame: We were the four directions. Sat in sand, made a clear gift out of her center, out of the riddle, her happiest time. I wanted the water to pull me out, the water to hear me always. It kept pushing me back, back to that scar.