Crawling out of the sheets,
from where our fires did meet,
I am burned and sore in places
that still pleasantly tingle traces.

Our flames, burning orange
a low glimmering sight,
but given lust for fuel,
combustion to blue in the night.

Sparking friction,
crackling addiction,
conflagrations consume
but ours regularly resumes.

Our need to feed
on each other can,
never ever be met,
so we take what we can get.