She collected her kindling,
Eagerly selected,
Chosen for perfection. Cradled in the arms.
A pyre was made, slowly, rising nto the sunshine. Reaching to kiss its cheeks, a loving caress.
Earth orbited. A match was struck.
Fizzling softly, the light flickered.
The pyre: a mountain of potential,
The sun sat, sipping coffee.
No place he'd rather be.
It was home, safe. No fire, no burn.
No fire, no light...
She thought
And the Sun looked over, smiling at Earth.
She sat,
desperately striking at matches...
trying to set it all alight.
But he mustered the winds.
Blew out the burn.
Soaked the flame. Kept Earth safe.
He pulled her in, kept her close.
Wrapped her up, de-assembled the pyre.
Earth looked into space, marvelled at the shooting stars.
He held her curves,
called her perfect,
pecked her forehead.
Held her hand, sat in peace but
Earth was warm: craved eruptions, craved lava and
Storms and solar flares.
A signal, anything,
of a deep seated passion. A quick of the candle. An excitement of heart.
And yet, still, Earth lay settled in his arms.
Content and cradled.
