They were dry tinder
   Cautious of the passion on the cusp of friction
       Back-stepping each possible spark
          And ignition
            To burn feverishly.
Their retreats only added kindle to their bodies' desire
   Crying out for flaming tongues to lick
     And flicker
       And erupt in
        A blazing inferno of utter combustion.
It was not the uncontrollable white heat they feared
  But the fear of eventually running out of fuel
    The backwash when nothing but
      Char and ash remain
         And the last embers snuffed out.
The yearning like smoke
  Forever lost on the bellows of time
    It was not the burning they dreaded
      But being burnt.