I burn for you. Did you know that we have
matching scars? Remember the first time
you laid a hand on my
shoulder: It was then that I
caught fire. It was then that I knew
I had a body
for this purpose alone. I was born
from your touch. I was made to fall
into your eyes, made to rise before you
on shaky feet, to stand beside you
and be consumed
by this pyre that I have built
with hallowed devotion.
I do not sleep, and still
I have dreamt of you. I have felt you
in every sweet thing I have known —
your hands have touched me
through long winter shadows, trailing soft
down my neck; your mouth has kissed me
in every amber drop of honey, thick
in my throat; and all birds sing
the bright notes of your laugh, all summer trees
cast your dark gaze over me.
I plucked out my wings
one plume at a time. If born at sea
I’d wish for legs. What good
is the sky or ocean, when you stand
bathing in the golden light of a setting sun?
If I could not inhabit this body
made to be touched, I would sigh
cricket songs for you, hidden in the
wheat fields. I would slide down your skin
as cool creek water. I would brush your cheek
with a warm spring breeze. I would be
anything. I would do anything. I
we are a story of final words.
This was never our fault.
We were only ever meant to watch
how it ends and ends
and ends, and ends, and ends.
But I have found you.
And I have found you. And I have
found you. And I will rip out my wings
every new time. There is love
in the leaving. Remember the first time
that I touched your shoulder. Hold my name
beneath your tongue — it was always yours
My forever (my never),
always will I burn for you.
Now here comes the part
we know best.