Teach the Torches to Burn

by Caleb Roehrig

“If you want to have a meaningful conversation, you need a stranger.” He smiles. “Like me?” “I didn’t know there were strangers like you.”

“Perhaps, but I think the risk is worth it. You have … an honest face.” “But I am far from honest.” Unable to help myself, I smile. “I have, in fact, only just finished telling you precisely how deceitful I am.”

When he pulls back, his mouth swollen, his eyes dazed and glittering, he gasps, “Is this … is this what it’s meant to feel like?” “I don’t know.” I am unable to catch my breath. “I’ve no idea what it’s meant to feel like—but if it’s always like this, how does anyone ever stop?”

“If you like,” the monk suggests, after another thought-filled silence has passed between us, “we can go outside and hunt for rainbows.”

“I want more of this,” I tell him plainly. “Days of it—weeks, months.” “Only months?” He is being coy, but I am not. “Years, then. Forever, if you can spare it.”

Two days ago, I could not think of one thing to look forward to, and now I am dreaming in weeks and months and years.”

“Everyone finds poetry excruciating,” I point out. “Good poems are unbearable,” she agrees. “But the very bad ones can be terribly amusing.”