Those magnetic moments
leave me clammy with
guilt and yet
beading with the shame
of shamelessness.

Can we kiss out the heat between us?
as though passion
were a black plastic lighter
and each kiss burns
a "click" of butane, in hot
succession until just firefly sparks
remain.

No
this heat is doused with salt
water, inciting a satin catharthis.  
Unrelenting
these fat tears turn the flames
to smoke.
I am strangled, gasping for a hint
of sweet relief and
begging for the air I waved off, thinking it had
grown stale.