Lips crackling from the heat of campfire stories,
star shaped holes cut in upturned metal drums
beam out their silhouettes and mark your face
as celestial.
You have always been and will always be

    cosmic.

Cross-legged you stare solemn at the contained blaze
and I wonder if you wonder
like I
how it feels to be fire
and I wonder if you make those faces
by choice
or if sullen is your default expression
I think if you think
like I
that a smile is an awkward thing,
and to align my face and show my teeth,
gnarled and blackening from the constant torrent
of smoke I pour over them,
gives too much away.