Pyrolagnia - 2/6/2012
My fingers run upand over
the bones of your back
where your wings
should grow,
and I breath heavily
into the crook of your neck,
as you go to work
on the pleasures
I demand.
I imagine that
the soft light hair
that covers your flesh,
as it catches
the sunlight,
is a fire
that will consume me
and burn away
all the lies
and diseased loves
that I allow
to cling to me
as I open my mouth
to breath out
words
I may or may not
mean
and breath in the
smoke
from the charred
remains
of me.