someone once asked me what
love is like and my breath
ripped against my throat and
it took me three and one fourth seconds
too long to construct some
well-thought answer, and i
said the one syllable i could
manage would fill in the lost
puzzle piece for the question:

fire

and god, love is a fire
which singes the insides of your
unromanticized stomach and it
lilts and dances and flares in
orange-yellows and red-blues
and somehow the self-intoxication
of the high from the burning
feels so right. at some point,

the flames begin to engrave
acidic holes in your skin, circular
cigarette burns in your lungs,
lick the linings of your throat
with its fire and it hurts so bad
you throw the cure on top of it:
water, and the forest fire dies
with you. and at
some point you light up
another match, let the flames
erupt again. but

for now, there's only
ash and dust and exhausted
eyes and bones with singes
in the cracks and puddles from
quenched flames and
i'd wonder why the fire stopped
burning

except i'm glad it did.