I have a small fire burning up my lungs
like shredded kindling. I don’t know how he
managed to lodge himself there- or why it is me
that he chooses to inhabit.
Yet he’s mine and he sings in
rusty crackles that propel
my lingering wounds to bubble to the surface-
his heat renders me magma; I am malleable to him.

I think of titanium and ice cubes
and liquid nitrogen, occasionally,
but I remain true
to my fire. He has me. I’m burning.

A branch once charred is never truly immaculate again.
And I have become magnificently singed,
no matter how much of the
ever-present precipitation
I coax into my blistering throat,
I can feel him smoldering.

Perhaps I’ve grown too
comfortable, too familiar with his crackle.
But I’ve found my own reach
Mirrors that of his many lapping tongues.