I remember the exact way
his hands looked as
they covered up my attempts
at sparking a flame,
blocking the fan's
breeze.
They were cupped softly around
the faint streaks of
orange yellow and red,
and his honeyed skin glowed
so deliciously against the
flickering light as it enveloped the
cigar.
I felt his fingers brush mine,
and I choked on my own breath as
the charge washed over
me.
The flame was fully lit,
and his brown eyes reflected with
fire,
burning through me, igniting
me from the inside
out.
The warmth of his laugh
scorching my eardrums,
I listened to his
stories and ideas as
my body began boiling in
his rhetoric.
His presence struck me like
a match,
his aura drew me in like
a moth to a flame,
and when he helped me light
that cigar,
I think he set me on fire,
too.