Firestorm

I think about you

I think about your small hands

Anchored on my puffed out chest

And how we said “never again”

Again and again

 

You retreated in my hesitation after you asked

“What’s your favourite thing about me?”

Well, it’s the mess I make with your hair,

The way your breasts fall when I won’t let you up,

Your owl eyes and innocent stare

 

I have been trawling through the wreckage and

These are the last embers of that firestorm.