To think of you,
but to not be consumed;
to watch to feel to hear
the flames and the smouldering embers,
but only feel the lick of their (your) lips,
but none of the danger,
none of the burns of flamed fingers grasped
too tightly so that I can’t tell –
who’s doing this to me?
The smoke, or your arms-
who suffocates me more, smothers-
neither.
You burn quietly in the background.
Contained.
Yearning.
Paige Briscoe 