the images are here again, in my lucid mornings, in the eerie peace of my day's starvation. flashes of faces, remembering words heavy with expression, i am almost haunted by apparitions of that night, only that, i feel no torment by these moments of revisitation. i am instead, realizing, ruminating, on the multifaceted complexities of the circumstances of that evening, while lost in the chaos and darkness of old, tayuman road... when you held my hand... and my fingers closed on to a tender grip.
touch can be a dangerous thing.
when it seduces you in a flaming dance of light,
and rewards you with a pyre for your devotion.
the euphoria in the burn.