the_spark_of_the_original_fire raze do you ever think of the child we passed on our way to your apartment — his hair dyed red, though there was too little of it to run a comb through — struggling to seduce a door back into its bed like a broken picture frame? i know his name but nothing of his life. we speak of unsmoked cigarettes and exhaustion. you tell me i'm not naive. love and anger can sleep beneath the same thin sheets, their bodies bent away from each other but too tired not to touch. this is how the first flame was made: not with flint and char paper, but from the shared heat of landlocked lovers. 250109 what's it to you? who go blather from