It burned so brightly,
so intensely as all falling stars do.
What's a year to any historian?
What's two years at that?
Rocks would laugh
at how quickly this burned for you.
How persistent the yearning.
How rapidly every fiber hardened
and refused to dance.
The stars dance to their own tune. Sometimes
challenging the night's horizon, never
toeing too close to the sun.
But this wick of a heart
wanted every evening, every dance,
burning too quickly for cupped hands
to feel its warmth.