One night when I was eighteen
I was drunk on beers and East end accents
in a Basildon garden lighting fireworks.
I seared my thumb
on the base of a sparked *******
which careened into the fence and dried grass,
igniting in deep welted pain
and a smallish fence fire.
Inside my skin sits once again the same ache
ignited by a spark you nurtured,
which burned us both down,
as beautiful and unruly as the rogue firework and the flames.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:31 AM UTC
One night when I was eighteen
I was drunk on beers and East end accents
in a Basildon garden lighting fireworks.
I seared my thumb
on the base of a sparked *******
which careened into the fence and dried grass,
igniting in deep welted pain
and a smallish fence fire.
Inside my skin sits once again the same ache
ignited by a spark you nurtured,
which burned us both down,
as beautiful and unruly as the rogue firework and the flames.
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