Her kisses are light: all heat and smoke. She trails them like promises across my skin, each one an ember that quickly turns to ash. She is a candle, a hearth fire, a beacon; I am the one who burns.
I want to wake up with your handprint on my hip and your perfume in my hair. I want to be haunted by your touch. Every breath of wind could be an unexpected caress: phantom kisses against my skin.
Sometimes, we forget our words. Sometimes, we don’t remember how to mourn. Silence stands between us, a leviathan of unspoken grief. We linger in its shadow, waiting for the delicate whisper of rain.
Before sunset, I light a fire.
Word after word I feed into the flames. Words like stay, and more, and please. The air is full of them: embers striving to be stars.
I feed your name into the fire as well, every syllable a promise. The trees thrust grasping fingers into the sky to draw down night’s blanket over us.
The ashes fall lightly on me. They stain my clothes, my hair, my skin. The ashes fall lightly, but they fall.
I promised to let you leave gracefully. You promised not to look back.
One of us lied.
Your footsteps kicked up dust in the yard. I followed you out, my fingers catching at your sleeve.
I will leave the door open for you. I will leave the porch light on.