A soul is heat for the body: sometimes a warm inner blanket, occasionally a scorching sublimation of white-hot blood. When a soul is lost, its body grows cold and slow.

My soul was missing, neglected through lack of use. It had left to seek a more hospitable host. Yours was burning visible funeral fires for the loss of love: your hurt was a beacon. Your fire-soul surrounded your skin, a thin blue haze of flickering pain. Your inside was cracking with frightened ice. I caught the sparks from your skin-fire and they kindled a new soul in me.

As my body became warm again, your funeral-fire burned dry. You grew cold and still. You held me for the comfort of warmth, for movement. You kissed me, and the kiss ****** my sublime soul out of my mouth and into your bones, your lungs, your heart.

Our shared soul-fire is now yours alone to hold; my mouth still burns, but my blood and bones are cold.