This past summer I burned for a writer.
Our first date, by a lake.
We sat on this old, worn out picnic table.
I should have known it wasn't going to work out.
We talked.
Hand in hand, crossing running water,
Dark.
The road was rocky and unstable and it  was the same way out.
I should have known it would turn out this  way.
She wrote all over me.
Touching,
Leaving fingerprints mistaken as ink stains.
She was writer and pen and keyboard and  backspace.
I was paper
and just paper.
She took me home
Lips to lips,
up in flames I went
She did that to me.
3rd degree burns shouldn't have felt that right.
I should have known,
I should have known
This was all too good
I was too good.