The flame is crushed between your thumb and middle finger. I marvel at those fingers, the same ones that brush my skin with love like an impressionist also bring fire to its death. You do this without even a flinch in your expression. The Light is gone from the room, but not your eyes. Smoke dances about your face, a moving picture frame of floating ash for your portrait. You reach for me and place
your fingertips on mine.
You lead me far far away,
into the moonlight.