A spark.

In the centre of the room.

Unknowingly lit from the comfort of the velvety-red seat.

The cursory brush of the knuckles against the pant leg.

A pause.

Eyeballs catch one another and then flit away.

The conversation ebbs and flows, weeps and sings, starts and stops.

The flame dances to the music.

It’s ethereal.

It’s a spark.

Hope wraps itself in blankets, shying away from the world, away from the heart.

Though, the blankets are opaque.

The spark lights up the room.

It will not be quenched.

The fire will not wither.

The hope will not be boxed up.

The blankets peel back, one layer at a time.  Bravely removing themselves to reveal the bruised underbelly.

Slowly.