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Description
Armed with the knowledge that
every time we breathe, we burn
a little bit more. Oxidize, rust, whatever.
Thus, I began to look for a fast burning lover.
With ever kiss, I wanted to make her smolder, to make her
rust more and more. I wanted red to form on her upper lip
and be brushed off with those dainty swipes with the napkin.
Every time she told me I took her breath away, she was a
little bit more like the iron filings thrown into our yard
throughout my childhood, the ones that turned the grass
orange and then dead, and that dead, black spot remained.
At night, I would put attach an oxygen mask to her face.
She mumbled slightly and didnt wake up, and I felt
like I was vandalizing artwork.
And then one day, in our nightly conversation (trying to drown
out the TV), she felt it. She burped her polite little burp
and smoke came out. She looked at me, not understanding but
understanding at the same time. She burned a little bit more
every day, her hair flaring up into individual
fires. The smell absorbed into her. Her fingers went after that,
then her toes, nose, lips. I carried her around, strapped
to my back, exhaling steam and smoke in tandem.
And one night, I woke up with some wildly important thought
in my head, and I turn my head a little to look, really look at her
and there's nothing, just a black circle in the white sheets.
My hand slowly slides through the sheets, emerges into the cold
November air, and I trace my name in that pile of ash.

Description
Armed with the knowledge that
every time we breathe, we burn
a little bit more. Oxidize, rust, whatever.
Thus, I began to look for a fast burning lover.
With ever kiss, I wanted to make her smolder, to make her
rust more and more. I wanted red to form on her upper lip
and be brushed off with those dainty swipes with the napkin.
Every time she told me I took her breath away, she was a
little bit more like the iron filings thrown into our yard
throughout my childhood, the ones that turned the grass
orange and then dead, and that dead, black spot remained.
At night, I would put attach an oxygen mask to her face.
She mumbled slightly and didnt wake up, and I felt
like I was vandalizing artwork.
And then one day, in our nightly conversation (trying to drown
out the TV), she felt it. She burped her polite little burp
and smoke came out. She looked at me, not understanding but
understanding at the same time. She burned a little bit more
every day, her hair flaring up into individual
fires. The smell absorbed into her. Her fingers went after that,
then her toes, nose, lips. I carried her around, strapped
to my back, exhaling steam and smoke in tandem.
And one night, I woke up with some wildly important thought
in my head, and I turn my head a little to look, really look at her
and there's nothing, just a black circle in the white sheets.
My hand slowly slides through the sheets, emerges into the cold
November air, and I trace my name in that pile of ash.