awad: fire -- 5.4.08.

i stare at you from across the fire, watching the flames cast dancing shadows across your face and into your eyes, the rich scented dusk seeping through your lips as the moon climbs the sky. it smells like pine needles here, like fresh air and twilight, dirt and mountains and water.

i say things to you, in my head. i always mean what i say, but i don't always say what i mean. darling, if i did that, we would never have gotten this far. in my mind, i scream at you, i yell until my voice breaks, until i gag on my words and vomit what this is really about, what i hope you know this is about. love. and no, sweetheart, i can't define that word anymore than i can capture the stars in a clear glass jar, or pin the fading rainbows to the horizon so they'll stay there forever.

but i know what i feel, and i know i would rather feel love than know the meaning of it, oh i swear, can't you understand that?

when you try to speak, it comes out a sputtering sob-like sound; will you just tell me what you're thinking? you turn your fragile figure away from the crackling heat, and the night hides your face from my view. i watch you retreat into the tent, leaving me here alone, communing with the fire, contemplating the galaxies shining down over us all those millions of light years away.

the fire has diminished to just a few glowing coals before i join you inside our flimsy cloth shelter. in the pitch dark, i can't determine whether you're sleeping, so i do my best to keep quiet. i slide inside the sleeping bag beside you, feeling somehow comforted by your slow, rhythmic breathing. something in me releases when you pull me into your arms; i'm safe here i think, just for tonight. a release of tension, like exhaling after holding one's breath in terror. and when your tongue slides over mine, that's when i know you taste the way you always have, and maybe it's called forgiveness, maybe it's called healing.