Everything about you was a forest fire.
From the flames that danced behind your eyes,
to the bright, scalding coals in the pit of your stomach.
And if you'd ask me why I thought you were beautiful,
it's for these reasons and so much more.
You left me with scars
of the nights we shared.
Burns up my arms and down my legs,
as the hot tendrils licked every inch of me.
Your wamth stayed with me,
on the curve of my spine and between my shoulders.
My sweaters still smell like you,
the vanilla scented perfume you wore on our dates.
I can no longer light my favorite candle without thinking of you,
and every time I smell smoke I think of the cigarettes and the burning tip as you drew it from your lips.
You lit lamps in the darkest corners within me,
spread them to my gut, my chest, my thighs, my neck,
and made me warm in the biting winds of my own mind.
Though, like a forest fire,
you'd ended too.
You left me with ash stained cheeks and blackened hands
trying to pick up the remainders of you.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
