here; never

Here in this place

I am reminded of your hands, and

the way I didn't want to touch the fabric of you

for fear of never pulling away. 

I am reminded of your hands on the back of my neck as you asked me, close and warm, "Does that feel good?" 

There are things I will never say. So instead, 

I burn alone. 

I taste spit. 

I bruise the soft spots above my breasts. 

I want to be enveloped in you. But instead,

I burn slowly. 

I wait. 

I build an altar to you in the pit of my stomach and the swell of my hips.

I sing in the car and I move like dancing,

in case I should see you again. 

This ballad

of a fucking arsonist;

let me burn.