Some time ago I put words to something that I do, most of it being inside my head.  "I carry torches."  The habitual crushes.  They've been there for a long time.  Their focus changes as each new year rolls by, but I wonder what I would be without them.

I haven't decided if they're a refuge or a chosen necessity.  Would I censor my indulgence, even if I wanted to?  What's a candle in a world full of bonfires?

Those they're carried for will never know.  That's what makes it so perfect.  Reality is ruinous, for this anyways.  I can admire how green the grass looks on the other side, so long as I never actually climb over the fence.

These little flames make me alive inside in ways I cannot describe.  I am not dead otherwise; it's simply a different way of feeling.

In this hunt there is a rapture, that flees upon the capture...but not completely.  Would that an understanding could be reached, so that enjoyment could be found in release, in moments made precisely fleeting.