Retrospection

Retrospection hot like stone

burns fingertips as they trace history,

leaving fingerprints in the shape of sense.

Place your hands over your heart,

heat rapidly seeping through the pores of your chest, 

whispering words of consolidation.

You must feel the fire.

Place your fingertips so close to the flame

that the blaze shoots a signal up your spine.

Only then do you retreat;

only then do you jerk back, without a sliver of thought, 

unwilling.

Only now may you trace your body with fingertips

that know what it feels like to burn.

 

Intrinsically awakening

to every cell of your skin

which crawled for this warmth

all along.

Which sent you cries of perceived nothings

when what was truly called for

was the heat of this fire.

Let it burn.