“Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all.” -William Shakespeare

 

Words bubble and blister at the surface

Like kids’ fingertips when lighting matches.

 

Heed warnings and cautions and likelihoods;

They play despite the risk of getting burned.

 

Are we child-like to keep steady friction?

And have those initial sparks long-settled?

 

Yet we blow on both sides, realizing we

Can’t decide to ignite or extinguish.

 

Smoke rises; disguised as anxiety

Flames wriggle like worms from golden apples.

 

And we’re left to feed it or let it die

On the grounds of distance and bad timing.

 

Who’s feeding and who’s fighting? Are we both

Sure that this is worth us getting burned?