kerosene killed the knight (and took down the rooks and kings with them)

strike one. strike two. strike three. maybe this time the candle won't go out so easily. scratch the head against the rough surface. again. do it again, and again, and again, and again... 

let young love's complexities ascend into flames. let potential combust. pretentious perspectives of "what we could be" only fuels the fire further. douse our excitement in gasoline... does it even matter when we'll both fall into ashes anyway?

keep the light on. let it burn in the middle of cold, amateur hearts that can barely keep up with the last beat so we can stay warm. you mirror the way my hands reach for the heat in the middle of the northeast monsoon's february leftovers, but that's all we are. that's all we do. that's the only rhythm the pounding sensations in our chests are familiar with. i've outgrown my bundle of insecurities, but i find myself continuously knitting its bottom half to stay sheltered from the chill. there's no sense in wrapping your arms around me. we both wear thick coats of adolescent fragility; no heat to radiate... only solace and comfort in knowing our limbs are awkwardly tangled in the same way. a relentless, transcient twin fantasy.

i'd ask you to take it off and bare your soul for me, but even the vibrations inside your bones know all we can give each other are carefully curated half-baked impressions that only leave room for the surface ever so slightly. good thing we (unknowingly) wear our amygdalas on our sleeves.

a picture of our potential paints the scratched matchbox surface, but the ink is cheap and rubbing off. the friction charges up a fire... but it fizzles, and crackles out, and the match dies out before i can even begin to tell you how i actually feel. let the longing for your affection ignite another one.

"maybe there is love behind narrow roads and turnstiles." i blame the nagging voice in my head for thinking we could be who i thought we would be. we thrived on adrenaline in spaces only our pairs of eyes are aware of... and i got so lightheaded on the sensation that i wallowed in the wistful wonder of waiting. of wishing and wanting to put all my faith in our prospects. i thought i saw the faintest glimmer of a promise in your eyes... but that was just a reflection of me cremating forgotten promises. i took it a little too seriously and etched each and every letter meticulously onto my veins. now all that flows inside of me is the reverence and attachment i have for everything temporary.

backspace. backspace. there will be another time and place for things that we've skipped over. i cup my hands over the blazing flames. the candle wax has been melting, dripping on unassuming, beat up suede shoes for centuries now. the monsoon moans angrily. "how much longer are you going to wait?" it asks me. in the river reflecting the moonlight all i see is a fool melting herself into a puddle of fervor. i'd do anything to keep you warm.