Fingertips

I could write this flame,

Drawing moths with my pen, pushing
their wings into the heat, burning
bodies to feathery ashes. Turning
the wings into words, writing
the name of love in the flickering
dying flame.

I could write this flame. But

I would rather hold it here
between my fingertips,
the charring match. The orange heat.
The thickly flickering
wood-sweet burning smell,

The sulphurous flare of the head.
The coldness of the heart.