he doesn't burn slowly,
usefully, like a candle,
he burns dangerously
like a cigarette
about to be dropped
on crusty bedsheets,
he burns like red embers
spat from the fire
onto ancient rugs.
he is a dervish, whirling,
living for this moment
and this moment,
and this one.
he is a professor
in the science of
getting nowhere.
he devours all the flavours,
he is the rainbow.
the flags he flies
are not red, they're flaming,
and i am the moth.
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