Carrying a torch

Love, to me, is an ember.
A soft, warm, glowing thing.
(A fragile, fickle, flickering thing.)

And as I hold it gently,
sputtering in the crease of my hand, all I can do is beg it to grow, to burn brighter;
To live.

My friend stands beside me,
hands under my own,
and I let silent tears seep into the story I tell her.

Of fear.
Of want.
Of joy and loneliness.

My ember flickers in the dim light, and I tell her of the summer I spent feeding it; 
of painstakingly building it into something lasting, something real.
I murmur of who it’s meant for...and of what it really means to me.

I’ve never kept an ember this long.

Still, it dims in the crease of my palm, and I curl inwards. 

I want to feel its warmth again.
Desperately, I want to see it rise into flame.
To leap and dance like it did the night I asked him.
The night he said yes.

And I am terrified.
And I am anxious.
And I am nearly resigned…if not for my friend.

My friend, who clasps my hands and closes them gently around the ember, and just smiles.

“You’re good at keeping things warm"

Like it's the simplest thing in the world.

And I felt myself glow again.

rosealice

VT

18 years old

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