A perplexed hand reaches out
and a trembling fingertip reaches the ****.
It circles the burgundy, round grip
with faltering determination
to push the hazel door forward.

This is where I will love you,
from the waves of your storms,
and the echoing wind from the east,
they are no anchorage,
but the way you sound—
it was close to home.

Because truth is darling,
your brokenness is the place
where I am going to stay—
forget the unburning cigars
you left on my lips—
it burnt me off to the
patches of your kiss,
the swirling black holes
you have tug on my chest—
all warm with the rainfall of
chrysanthemum petals.

This is where I will love you,
no sunrises or moonfall—
it does not entangle with
star-written poetry
you took halfway,
the late-night drive
that ends with
laying down on
your chest or
the subway walks
that we ended up
chasing the moon.

darling, this is where I will love you,
from the ends of your fall,
to the last bit of your
sunsets.

the flame devours all
watch it burn
watch yule logs in the winter
curl up to fireplaces for warmth
we toast marshmallows and make smores
fire is bright, peaceful, beautiful
deadly
spreads and kills in seconds
almost impossible to stop
fighting the fire for so long
stop and watch
the flame devours all
it's your turn

The best thing is. At the end of the day. It ends.