I never understood the idiom ”can’t hold a candle to” until I knew no one could burn quite like you when your voice hits my skin. I feel every syllable you speak, and some nights they’re the lullabies that sing me to sleep, sweetly.
Sometimes I lie awake with an aching for the symphonies you leave unsung, and I dream with open eyes of what I might find between the lines, like maybe you could be mine. But maybe my mind is making me believe in what exists just behind the fluttering of my eyelids.
And I worry that you will melt, and be reduced to residue on the table where my cards lay scattered because I don’t know how to arrange them so our hands meet the way our eyes do. Mine always seem to find you, like a moth to the brightest light in the room. I don’t think you know what you do.
You set fire to these weary bones, and they have never felt more like home.