There are fires, my dear, in dark and lonely places. We rarely give them names. Yet they burn with the agonizing fury of Revelation, too hot for the gods to vanquish, too deep for the mind to calm. With anticipation they grow, and the flames send flesh into the sky, red embers like comets screaming toward heavenly bodies, soaring, streaking, foolish and fiery.
But expectation plays a devil to our divinity, and reality sees that comet crashing into our own uncultivated wastelands. Solitude then, after anticipation, burns with a much darker flame, until the ashes of a cooling universe blanket our lust with the quiet, helpless ache of passion denied.
Thus here we stand, staring, stopping, awkwardly avoiding. I can only ask you in my thoughts. I can only charm you in my dreams. You will never read these words, never step further into my world, never likely think of me beyond those quiet halls, but would that I might ask, you'd see our stories share a common theme, our lives do walk a common path, and our fires burn with the same fierce intensity.
So answer me in your mind. Answer me in your heart. Listen carefully to your dark and lonely places. Demand a reason to answer No. Demand a reason to deny yourself a chance. I fear our fires will never meet, I fear the depths of darkness they will yield, and I fear you'll find your reason.
So if I could say to you my thoughts, I'd say that should our flames ever dance together, demons will dream the glories we devise, and our passions will lick the fruits of immortality. We could wrap the universe around our souls, take eternity as our slave, and set a thousand galaxies alight with a single lifetime of ecstasy.
I await your answer. If only I had asked the question...
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An infatuation led me to write this snippet back in January 2009. Infatuations are gifts from the muses. Torturous gifts, as often as not.
