Scribbles on a Napkin

Glow

My heart is a delicate thing, like a bed of embers.

Brilliantly lit, though not bright enough to be beautiful.

Warm, ready to burst into flames, ready to be a raging fire, yet not able to find the means to do so.

Dying, not able to get enough breath to burn once more.

Desperately trying to find someone to make me burn once more, trying to find the person to light my insides on fire, to make me the thing that burns yet gives life, the thing that hurts and maims yet saves and heals.

I'm a bed of embers that is slowly dying, and knows that it's only a matter of time before the spark and flicker goes out totally.

I'm like a bed of embers. The kind that people stomp out at the end of the night before they head inside to escape the cold.

I'm like a bed of embers. Will you be the person to throw gasoline onto the embers to make them burn once more?