There’s a cold in my fingertips
That’s painting my whole hands red.
The cold pain leaches up my arm,
Turns into the strain of muscle
as I hunch forwards
into the fire,
egging it on.

No matter what teasing motions I make,
the fire’s embers do nothing
but beat from the heart of the smouldering wood,
illuminating the white ash that beards it.

After minutes of patience
that seem like an age,
The hardwood bursts into flame.

I wait a while, watching,
Hoping for you to do the same.