The smoke curls out of the top like my finger tracing your bicep.
It’s romantic and unknown and stimulates my olfactory. It smells like Christmas and fear and cabins in the woods.
Kind of like you.
I think about the kind of wood that’s burning, if they used a match, who’s enjoying the dancing flames, and if they will watch the final ember burn.
Comfort and the dissipation of the past combined with the human need for warmth and the longing to be engulfed in the flames.
A complex manifestation of being burned alive and turning into this dancing smoke that stands against the night air so vividly.
Who knew the bricks were able to free you?
So confining, but the path they form leads you back to me.