Afterglow

Since that moment
you decided
that she was worthy
of being seen,

A touch of rosé
had found its way back
into her sallow cheeks.

Just a small fire,
a warmth, creeping
inch by inch,
blanketing her,
holding her,
compelling her.

And then, a re-igniting:
of extinguished stars
behind her tired eyes,
of drifting, cooled lahar
that buried her voice.
She is fire, she is light,
dynamite.

Now, you may choose
to love her,
or you may choose
to sit back, drink it in,
(hold your applause)
and watch her burn, and burn, and burn.