phyre

Shall we start a fire all along
your equator or your meridian,
using your fingers as wooden logs
and my lips of sparking flints?

As our eyes haze over
with the hiss of panting,
will we catch the scent
of our skin blooming in fire?

And what will we say
in the moment? Our
tongues would crackle
like Egyptian parchment.

While the eyelash singes
and the tongue sizzles-
a wet thumb against
a hot iron and the breath
escapes our chest,

Will we remember
that we hold no links
to perpetual Phoenixes?

In the midst of our collapse,
will we look to the ceiling-
or will we fall from the bed
scattering away from each other?

And as the flames quiet down
just like a phantom fire
dying in the middle
of the forest,
we will lie tranquil

Only hoping
that in the silence
of our ashen stillness,
we can learn to speak,
with tongues
of rising smoke.