embers are kind and generous

when they restrain from burning (my house)

I'm glad for the flowers that breath chemistry

below the heavens at an adequate, moderate sea lovely cradle

gone faster than the dices dangling sparks and tasers

guiding hands, finite strokes of fantastical (hot) what If's

capital G's for Generational Gap  {or what is general gender gentrification?}

heck it all bends when the cavity of my chest gives pause if the right person moves with purpose

tracing paper cannot testify, not this time

I don't always serenate to myself, and if I do it breaths nostalgia like breaking bread with an old friend

of that I am certain and cannot tell the difference:

if the Bonfire night, season, callout is upon us you can bet I'mma wander back

to the fears of heights and graves from yesteryears when I clowned around

and telling the truth got me in crux crossroads

a misguided lesson ill afforded to burn at both ends

of that I am certain and now understand the difference.

I remember guiding hands

open bonfires and leaping short legs, shorter people still

cheers and friendly company drowning animosity to the fellow neighbor

grilled meats and Fire excite and trill so very easily

as we run, toss and turn we look as the embers wrap around

involve, take shape, turn and leap with us

warmth and safety grow and fret with adequate risk

side by side with purpose

whenever they are kind

and generously do not burn my body

sparring my soul momentarily

what is to own a fellow scars if deep down

we are carbon and atom alike exchanging vitals dangerous to one another

as if wishful thinking could be less dangerous

to me if I noticed

I stave the fire in my sleep making it hella sexual

a narrative of juxtaposition akin to the tales where the princes

end up dancing forever.