You fell in love
With a girl made of
Ice,
And wax,
And candle wick.
All the while forgetting
That your fingers are
Matches
And her lips are
Crimson match-paper
That you can't resist touching.
Your kisses leave a
Wispy trail of airborne
Gasoline,
Wandering down her neck
To the fountain of her collarbone.
Her tongue
Is shrapnel,
Pressed
Behind
Military
Cemetery
Teeth.
The words that spill
In euphonious cacophony from
Her fire starting lips
Sometimes sting,
But you know
It's only payback
For the way
Your kisses
Burn.


k.f.