Sparks exist independently, they scatter, disperse from the central hearth, like projectiles, they reach for the stars, their original source, but gravity’s pull reminds them of their molten core. Sparks cannot befriend other sparks, they’ll combust and each lose their original purpose and singular force. They ignite the world around them, they set their setting ablaze, leaving a trail of ashes and dust in their wake. Sparks look for easy prey. Surfaces that spread, aged and brittle barriers, or fresh, young faces? Hardened wood, paper thin skin, syrupy sweet nectar, viscous pools of regret. Short-lived joy, burns that fade away.