It was more than fire.
It was a finer truth.
It came out of nowhere
like a bite inflicted to your hand.
It came as a crack through a glass,
my cheek in your palm.
Time — between two silences
had a sudden change in rhythm.
Yet, it was neither life nor death
I felt, looking into the heart of days.
It was even a pleasure to burn
in my own special way.
I bloomed like these
hermaphrodite flowers
under a sheet of ice.
Above, there was nothing
but that endless farce
we must all play.
Then ice of a finer blue
struk me at your touch.
It burnt without a flame
and was quieter than drug.
If a room could be lit up with it
It’d be such a glorious fire.
For you kept that intensity
of life in the coldest times,
you hid that intensity of joy
underneath —
that is also called beauty.

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