A flicker, a stare, fires the column, bled bare, by the pale yellow, violet flame as
its gliding wax grips and its rhythmic drip sets fast, and not unlike our game. The Slowness of time runs with our thoughts down this vine as I tease the quick with scorched fingers. And, as is your want, you navigate me, and like moths, we self destruct when we linger. A stolid breath of air soon releases our stares, and we flinch in the flame’s parting sigh; its sulphuric stench from the quickening wrench, reminds me of that stark light – as sleeping birds hum and a candlelit morn draws nigh.
Stitch my love heart
gone ragged at the seams.
Concentric tourniquets constrict
full bodied platelets
1 mm from their centre
to merge and congeal within a pulse
of a blue vein’s throbbing
wingspan bursting though
Outraged, deep wounds