There were ashes on the floor when
he first moved in.
Soon unnoticed as I watched him begin
to leave his biggest bags at the door and
handle small candles in the
darkest corners.

There were cracks on the walls,
against the white he used the flickering light
to make tall shadow puppets,
and made a smile flash like a switchblade.

Dusting ashes,
coals appeared,
the ones he revered to keep near but kept his scalded hands
in his holeless pockets,
palms wiped with the balm of the hidden places
he settled.

Many opened their gates,
but few have the space to sustain the boy who
refrained from making a home
inside those who were
never truly alone.

I knew where he was,
all along I could hear him playing that song,
a heavy sound resonating and sinking tones
into,
into,
into the weakest bones,
easily snapped,
but he reigned the cracks back in
from breaking beyond
thinner skin.

It was an inferno in the making,
this new found hero unaware
he'd be pouring gasoline over tiny heartstrings.

Wary sparks kept their mark in unlocated edges,
afraid any product of the name
would make everything in it's entirety
go up in flame.
But a mouth started to taste smoke,
clouded eyes began to see a familiar face
in blacker windows.

The feeling was branded, less than fragile, more than candid.

And it hurt to write with burnt fingertips.

Choking,
a suffocation could be an equal devastation
so the broken hands wrote for
the chance to breathe.
They found relieve
in the boy who refused to drop his lit fuse,
eyes unignoring to the fire left roaring,
a warmth on his cheeks
from the heat of one light he allowed to be nothing less than
impossibly bright.