Those embers in his eyes, breath
dryer than what had been kindling and a voice
just shy of crackling—
you knew, the moment he touched you,
feverish, consuming tokens you coolly hid
within marrow, within the framework
of lucidity. All lost in that irresistible smoke
he craved, blew your way.
But somethings just burn
themselves out, leave you with little
choice, years of nightmares,
harrowing backdrafts and damned drenched sheets,
long after a hundred new moons
chilled every charred wall left standing.
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2016