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
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.
because you, darling,
are my matchbox.