Bonfire Gravity

The beach fire crackles.
The sparks climb.
The waves keep time
like a heartbeat
in the dark behind us.

She sits close.
Closer than the cold requires.
It’s eighty degrees
and she’s pressed against me
like she needs the warmth
and we both know
the warmth she needs
isn’t coming from the flames.

Bonfire gravity —
everything falls toward her,
the light, the heat, the smoke,
every molecule of summer air
bends in her direction
and I’m no different,
just another element
pulled into orbit
around the blaze of her.

She rested her head on my shoulder.
I felt her eyelashes blink
against my neck.
Then her lips — barely,
just enough to register,
just enough to send
a current from my collar
to my toes
and back again
with interest.

The others went home.
One by one the trucks pulled out.
The fire burned lower.
She didn’t move.
I didn’t breathe.

Embers now.
Just the glow.
She pulled back
and looked at me
in the red-orange light
and her eyes held
every wild thing
the summer promises
and seldom delivers —
but tonight she’d deliver,
and the delivery
would leave marks.