It burns.
It burns as it rushes down my face;
And as it glides across my skin.
My pale, cold skin, that hasn’t seen the sun in months.
I’ve forgotten how it feels to have its warmth kiss my face,
It’s nearly identical in the ways I’ve forgotten you.

Oh, how it burns,
Warm and smooth in a cynically graceful approach.
Steaming with words I never said, never will say,
And still can’t, because it shakes my body so aggressively.

How it really, truly burns.
But don’t worry, it’s not painful.
Not in a knife cutting, sword stabbing, arm breaking kind of way.
Although I won’t deny it.

But rather, in a lustful, regretful, pitiful kind of way.
It’s the knowing that makes it hurt.
Knowing the reason why they fall,
Why they scorch trails of memories down my face.

Knowing the heart-wrenchingly obvious truth as to why they won’t stop.
And knowing that this could all be ended so easily,
Because, my old friend,
It’s you.

You are the reason.

And it burns even more forcefully
When I acknowledge that they fall down the same face,
And in the same place
I used to know your touch.