Fingers trace your spine,
feel the strength there,
the ripple of pleasure
as we turn another page,
savor the words etched
on each other's lips,
enter a new chapter.

I'm not much of a cook
and he doesn't much care
as long as I wear his favorite apron
and a smile.
I've ruined plenty of dinners
taste testing from his lips,
adding too much spice,
and setting off the smoke alarm.
He prefers a long simmer to a
fast boil, and we pour on more
Italian seasoning.

While I wage war
on this cracked concrete
of my resolve.

Hold it open

I'll step in
to gauge the distance
before we fall.

Hold on tight

So that we might
not trip over our
own defenses.

And these two hearts
clinging to hinges.

Hidden in the ashes
a crumpled heap emerges
black and bruised,
limping blindly through
a cloud of smoke.

Consumed by her own
self-induced disaster
she chokes on
what could've been
and what's left.

Through the fog
an errant memory
pierces her heart.

He asks, "Would you?"

She closes her eyes
before she falls again
and through the pain, says,
"Not even if you were the
last man on Earth
because
these things always end badly."

Shadows show me the lines we draw
between right and wrong.
Black and white.
They linger long after the white hot heat
of our romance
to drown us in conscience filled dreams
that wake us, breathless, and wanting more.