casting sparks

I said “I love you” that first time
at 2 a.m., both of us standing
mostly skin in your kitchen –
foreheads pressed together as if to
discern the truth of one another,

the beat of it so wildly turning
I can still feel the flutter
(from rib to throat to crown)
rise and curl like windblown smoke
from an August bonfire casting sparks
against the impenetrable dark

© Sarah Whiteley