matchbox

your body speaks of fire and does not live long enough to tell the truth.

of singed-amber hair that caught the sun too many times,

eyes stained merlot

and hips that still know their burn marks.

when the spark of friction between skin lights,

you offer your kisses like kindling

and we speak in tongues.

we are crumpled bodies, paper

at fahrenheit 451.

but why is your heart still

absolute zero?

i cannot breathe when i think of

your smiles crosshatched in smoke,

bedsheets left tangled, unsaid words

spilled like ashes from a cigarette.

my matchbox maiden, why do you speak

of promises you cannot keep?

we could be the sun, you the light

and i your rays. but how can i reach you

when your words turn away?

my fever dreams rewrite our reality into something beautiful,

make something from nothing

and too late i am realizing

that nothing collapses in on itself.

your body speaks of fire because it cannot say anything else.

you cannot tame the beast

but it chases you anyway.

devours you.

because you, darling,

are my matchbox.