Unkindled

For all I know, you could be waiting for me, to make the first move, and meet you at the scene. To sit, exchange wit, and sip wine in between bouts of laughter. My hand wanders from the fork to your fingers, and put you under the scrutiny of my gaze. I love the way you pull away and cross your arms. And I love the way you surrender them when I ask you to give them back. My skin, my lips, my surplus of things, they await your call at the end of the receiver. But after all this time, you still haven’t said it, and the words I dream, unspoken in my head. Locked away in wild imaginings, my desire, a spark thrown in wet kindlings. Unable to catch fire, the light is but a flash, momentary and swiftly gone. A photograph kept in a box of made up histories, and not for long, it too will be forgotten, along with all the memories of what could have been.


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