I have a fire there
as they say, in the belly.
You didn’t lay the fire;
the kindling has always
been in place
and the main wood laid
in preparation.
But you are the oxygen.
You fan it into white heat.
I see your eyes
fluttering open
a hands width away
and my heart blazes.
I am a burning bush
hot yet not consumed.
Your hands on me
leave trails of charcoal
where my skin flared up.
My heat will devour you
and leave in it’s wake,
for both of us,
nothing but our desire
laid bare.

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