Burn!

Fuck, how she lit him up! How his eyes burned when he wasn't looking at her! How his skin baked without her! How his loins kindled for her! She was his oven, his stove, he was warm for her form.

From the very start, it was all scald, scorch, sear, singe, smoke, smolder. Then she sauteed his heart. And everything, this raging fire in the very black and white tiled kitchen of his existence, exposed. A wind springs up. A spring winds up. Wind, wound, water. The fire condenses. The kitchen walls fall down, leaving a single romantic table. Place settings for two. The fire condenses into a single lit candle, suspended.

"See? It will always be there. It burns."

It burns. And burns. And burns.

These girls, they try to blow it out. They blow in his ears, they blow on his chest. They blow him in the ways that remind him of the way she blew others. The candle sputters - it stays lit. They pull the world out from under him in a way that reminds him of the way she built his world up. The candle falls, the light stalls - but it stays lit.

It burns. A single romantic table. Place settings for two. A single lit candle, suspended. Suspended in time? Suspended in place? Suspended in thought? Suspended for her? Who knows? It burns.