You came in fast,
like summer in April—
all swagger on borrowed time,
a heat that I couldn’t survive—
I should have known better
than to touch.

Your hands—
a bonfire across my skin,
your voice—a quiet guise
before the strike
of a match.

There are forces around us
we should not take casually—
magnetism, gravity,
the stretch toward something
that pulls in and begs
to be followed—
ironically, literally
I was no match for you.

You are made
of something primal—
untamed, unapologetic,
and in the end,
it was never a fair contest.
You, fire. I, thin air—
rushing to meet you,
after knowing full well
what fire does to air.