Flames and Ghosts

Intimacy

Erotic to a familiar touch, but not the familiar skin that meets comfort

Infatuation

At it's peak, passion is forest fire that scorches one's psyche and soul to a bright-ubiquitously untamed.

Escape

What is home, home is my flushed cheek buried safely against my lover's chest. Lover, your scent is not familiar- it will do.

Delusion 

Lover, my mind is nearly flooding into clear-stream conscienceness. Your body language does not dance the same way to native body.

Awake

One night fades into the horizon, stealing away what I can't bare to feel when the sun hits my shoulder.

These nights of flames are not the Sun I melt into.

I am detached and shade

for the Sun has another world to brighten.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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