It starts out quickly;
Wood, gas, and the quick light of a match
The wood crackling and splitting
like the part in my lips and the sweetness of your breath
The fire grows, heat emanating
like the pulse beneath your wrist
as I pull you close.
The sparks light your fingertips,
you taste the ash on your tongue.
The aroma of smoke
clings desperately to the cotton of your shirt.
But eventually all fires fade,
the wood ceases to crack and burn,
And everything is still,
like the sound of a deep forest calm,
the quiet of goodbye,
or a first summer night.
I can no longer feel the heat of
your pulse, taste the bitter ash on my tongue,
or find that spark of skin against skin,
but somewhere lingering
is the deep-rooted smell of you.