The sky is molten, mon amour. A broil of clouds in my heart. How long can I wait?
In this silence in which I wait.
You cannot know, mon homme chéri.
For I do not wish to burden you.
A relational line, a trajectory, a specific set of connections, patterns, motions into. Fire of desire. The threads extinguish themselves in the smoldering flame. What is moving towards erases itself as it burns, charred, blown away in the wind.
Will you catch me?
Or will you let me pass by?
