tell me about the fact that you never sleep on your left side.
describe every turn, every toss, every other hour where you open your eyes again.
your hand reaches into the humid air, trying to remember the width of my throat.
and isn't that like you? to run your tongue along the taste of piled bones against a torn mattress.
not the heat, not the growls in between,
you are beautiful, i see how you burn for me.
but didn't your mother warn you not to play with fire?
kerosene is unforgiving, my fingers striking the evening in the shape of matches.
and so we scream, you slam your body into mine.
a breath into my neck, just like this, baby?
but don't forget the way my lips burned your skin.
you won't find destruction like this in any other life.
and that is the art of my absence.
so, tell me again how you don't sleep on your left side,
because that's where the fire started.