She said,
“I don’t fear the fire—
I fear the incense trails
on other bodies’ breath.”
But I was all flicker,
no extinguish.
A shrine lit by accidents—
my spine a wick,
my throat a reliquary
of half-confessed names.
She called it jealousy—
but it bloomed like spellwork.
Her fingers pressed into my pulse
like an augury,
reading the tremors
to divine where I'd strayed.
She didn’t need reassurance.
She needed conquest.
To draw her scent down my collarbones,
to salt the earth
where other lips once camped.
I told her,
“There’s no one else.”
But I said it like a fugitive
sheltering in her mouth—
not because I was hunted,
but because she was the only place
I stopped running.
She kissed me
not like a lover,
but like a sorceress
marking her territory
with a language written in bitten skin
and satin breath.
Her thighs—
a trap I walked into willingly.
Her moans—
a requiem for every ghost I left unburied.
She wanted to be the only altar
my sins could kneel to.
And I—
I wanted to burn
only for her.
No more incense trails.
No more phantom mouths.
Let the others vanish into smoke—
hers was the flame I faced.
And stayed.