our clothes smell of burnt charcoal and soggy marshmallows,

small nats and nighttime creatures dart in and around and on top of the skin of my arms--

we pull the blanket closer

there is laughter and banter and the subtle sighs of late night stars, content with their bedtime whisperings of our joys. 

we do not know, that this: 

the bantering, the marshmallows, the stories of volcanoes and stars, 

the thick and thin flames quietly bursting from the ground, flickers and reds, blues, oranges--

these:

are our great joys.