Comparable to fire within my bones,

Not for lighting arson or cigarette,

But for the fuse running from pupil to soul.

Priceless to even Marie Antoinette,

As if a stroke of Serendipity,

Melting you down into but a puddle,

Re-sculpting your lips to curve up with glee,

Fueling you to fight a thousand battles.

While massaging your tension out of sight,

Easing you as could no musical note,

Almost like the simple switch of a light,

Or the warmth of a winter day’s trench coat.

As long as this proves a need for me and for you,

This should this never be ungratefully threw