Passions are like chinese lanterns.
They light up, between two they're held up,
by hot air mouthfuls, faster and faster,
with open arms towards the sky,
with fresh rain sliding down the chin,
it pumps up, blushes,
blows up and slightly, paper-ly crushes
and then, it takes flight.
Up, up, up, darling, therein.

With faces lifted towards the sky,
we observe its immaterial flutter.
We identify ours amidst the clutter.
We observe their vibrant breath.
We watch
them
rise
into
further
in a
last
sustained
sigh.
In the suspended second.
In the tightrope of possesion.

We watch them being devoured
by stars in heaven swollen
of so much night and so much will
of so many arrivals, sheets and sleep.

Eternity lasts a contained fire's flicker.
Maybe lit by lust's liquor.

Then, we glance down.
And, as it turns out,
the magic is lost.
So, lights out.