crème brûlée

I bought a blow torch.

It was small, but powerful. I bought it, thinking how marvelous it would be to burn. I wanted to take a hot flame and melt whatever lay before me, to change it into something spectacular.

I burned with abandon. But then, I put it back into the box and left it there for a very long time. Like the voodoo doll in my nightstand, its power frightened me.

I see you. You look up, and look at me. We look, and then hold the gaze. One, two.. twenty seconds perhaps before your smile finally sears my memory of you. Days later, and it is this that we remember: the shell of our smiles and the soft heat beneath them, the promises and the charm. The temptation of all that lies within.

This is simple, really, the gaze, the caramel sugar, the hand grasped beneath the table, and held. Time, and the sweetness of difference, the contrast between today and tomorrow, between you and me, between what we know and what we wish we knew.

It is this, desire: simple, and terrifying.

Eventually, though, we all crack open. The sweet appearance that terrifies us is rarely all that matters.

We reveal all the mistakes we ever made, the mismeasured moments, the overdone, the underdone. We regret, and we go on, find the sweet among the cream, the flavors added in some whim–unnecessary, but ultimately right.

And in the end, it is never perfect, but we look for more. We want more. In the end, there is always perfection in the whole.

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