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he counted my vertebrae like they were the pieces of a paint by number, one by one he adorned them in burning hues of reds and pinks until my whole body was ablaze; he let my ribs smolder under his delicate brush as he sculpted my porcelain figure, from my dripping shoulders down to my bruising hips-- every inch of me knew his calloused fingertips as he laid layer after layer of charcoal passions && watercolor dreams on this marble canvas; "critique me" I whispered as he etched his name a thousand times over into the fine lines of my left side brain.

O little flame, you once burned so free. You were bright and warm, so comforting to me. But now you wither and cool, soon to go out. I hope to restore you, but my heart's filled with doubt. I don't have the energy. I don't have the drive. I'm sorry little flame. I can't keep you alive. And without you, my fire, there's really no hope for me, but this was always inevitable, always so plain to see. O, flame, I wish it were different. I wish you could live on, but it's too late now. Our time together is gone. So good bye lovely flame. Thank you for your time. I'm glad that for a moment you were only mine, and as I watch you fade away, I ca