That sweet, hot spirit wound up in beauty. Oh, delicate possession, to tenderly touch, to stroke, to let loose those pent-up sighs. You demand I separate the spiritual from the physical: that is my desire.
My fire, my little fire, I tend, tend, tend to you. You are not ablazin’ o’er the earth, but you are enough to crackle with heat, to sustain a heart, to provide a hearth, to roast marshmallows over, to lick the ribs of embers with quiet flame, to entrance me into a reverie of my inner mysteries.