February 2, 2017
By Anonymous

Lodged between Your index and Your thumb,
It burns.
thick smoke embraces You,
covers Me.
We are amongst the clouds
as tall as the sun.
Perfect clarity looking down
all seeing, all knowing.
I see You.
laying down,
next to Me.
You play with Your hands on My body.
I play with My eyes on Your hands.
I get lost in the complexion of Our silence,
looking for meaning in the lack of sound.


How blissful,
The loaded silence over the empty noise.


Cylindrical roll of paper
rests between My lips, then Yours.
It burns.


We burn.


The sky burns
Orange, then red.
It burns
To black, then gray.


You burn
putting them out on my bare skin
remind me to stay awake
To not forget.


Thick smoke
Clouds my judgment
Fogs my memory


I remember.
You slid Your fingers in between mine
My eyelashes tangled in Yours
the scent of Your voice
the taste of Your smile
vibrations on your chest when you speak
then Nothing.
the low crackle of burning paper,
Four hundred, fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit.
I can hear it, I can see it, I can feel it,


I burn.
My fingers turn to ash.
flames crawling down the length of my arm
the wind scatters me among the flowers,
I whisper Your secrets,
To the Unknown.


Lay Me down
Close My eyes
Sing to Me
As we burn



The author's comments:

Based off an afternoon in the park watching the clouds and listening to music in the company of an ambiguous friend.

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