We lay in a room of disregard,

blankets wound tight about us,

pillows strewn across the room,

our clothes mounds of smoking fragments,

forgotten on the floor where they had melted off our bodies.

You knelt over me,

a cage of blistering flesh,

and like a curious child

I seared my hands to you

undulating upwards to

further cauterize

the wound, my body.

You were incandescence,

a blaze so harsh I wished to

extinguish, to swallow you whole.

I tried to peel back to

cerulean translucence,

but smoke denied my access.


(They say the center of a flame is cold, yet)


Bored of my games

you blazed out of control,

charring the sheets,

boring into my eyes.

I spasmed beneath you

clutching tighter as I felt less,

high from pain, or inhalation

of you, I know not.

Voraciously you lapped

me up in your whirlwind

blaze, choking me with

tendrils of calcine pleasure.

I lay there, blackened,

branded by you

healing from you

aching for you.

My fingers still carry

your warmth,

and as I burn my insides

I know it is not enough.


(You set me on fire and still, I apologize for burning.)


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