The logs in the fireplace glow hot tonight
With hisses and pops and the smell of firelight.
He lies on the rug, thinking, If she were here;
She sits on the couch, far away, though near.

The appeal of the fire no longer exists
For her, with him; she’d just as soon sit
Alone and imagine a different place,
A different fire, and a different face.

Fire is fire, he thought, sad to think
It would die by morning, when he would slink
Out alone in the daylight, distracted
By the heat of the sunlight, refracted.