You whisper in my ear,
ever so softly,
yet no matter how fleeting,
I catch your words.

Before they are gone,
there lies a moment
enveloped in meaning:
symbols beyond letters
bathed in the moonlight,
the weight of the urgency,
the passion in the starlight:
The night’s own simplicity.

But it’s only the first spark
and all too much meaning:
a fire in the heart,
a touch in mind.

But it’s only the first spark,
not quite the last breath
drawn from my dying
will to be.

But you give me this strange sense.
I’m blinded by arrogance,
or at least that’s my front
to place miles among meters,
yet we’ve come to find inches
as the sole proper distance
in which the nuances carry,
darting through the air.
Filling my empty halls,
painting these empty walls,
as I breathe the last breath
of a time I called ‘fall’.

But it’s only the first spark
and all too much meaning:
a fire in the heart,
a touch in mind.

But it’s only the first spark
yet the last leaf has fallen,
and this tree is barren,
baring but only bark.

As the winter air rolls in,
to the bone I am blazen.
Bursting beneath my burial,
december blows white.
Yet I carry your fire:
trapped beneath young skin,
tearing through young minds
as hands and hearts meet.
The electricity races,
words fall askew,
yet delicately intertwined
are the fingers, I, and you.

But it’s only the first spark
and all too much meaning:
a fire in the heart,
a touch in mind.

But it’s only the first spark:
body to body alight.
Melting as the winter snow,
illumined is my night.