As they sat in the open on a warm, starry night, he reached out and started the fire. The tinder was parched, and the flames raced the length of the limbs as they burned.
And before she knew it, she was on fire.
He kept adding bits, knowingly stoking it to a roaring brightness.
She encouraged him as the flames lit her eyes, raced to the ends of her hair.
This is the conflagration she’s always hoped for.
Years later, she learned he was a fire-starter, carrying the spark to eager kindling wherever he found it. He couldn’t resist setting fire. He loved to watch it burn.
In most, the flames died out quickly. But her fire was one he could not control, and it began to burn him too.
As she healed, she wondered if he was burned as badly as she.
Now as she awakened on All Souls Day two decades later, she could feel the effects of the fire and her desire to burn again.
That he was no longer alive relieved her of the fear of burning, but not the longing.
And on this morning, the soul of him snickered into her dreams and singed her parched edges.