I’ve been chasing warmth as long as I can remember. I never really felt it from the people around me, so I had to craft it. The first time was when I found a soggy box of matches at the park where the kids sneak to smoke pot after sundown. I gathered a few crusted leaves and struck a match. The smoke scorched my nostrils and the flame scathed my forearm. The flame flickered in my irises making my eyeballs water like a dog eyeing raw meat. Gradually I made my way to bigger things. The port-a-potty at the abandoned McMansion development site. The Gazebo on the hill next to the baseball field. The dumpster behind the discount grocer. My first house was a couple months ago. They never found out who did it.

The embrace of a flame is nothing like that of a person. A person is stiff, awkward, and let’s go as soon as is polite. A flame cradles you like a slimy newborn and pursues you if you try to run.

One day I’ll embrace the warmth forever.