How beautiful to be kissing at Christmas,
Just to feel the long wingspans,
We possess. A moth to a flame, is like
Icarus to the sun. Our soft spot for pyromania.
We are weak in the face of combustion,
Our lips are always looking to burn.
I look at your kerosene aura,
And your saintly self, a goddess,
Like you’re always stuck at noon.
And I want to fire my body with yours.
How twigs make fire in the heart of winter,
Those fireplace filled with logs of all sizes,
And our lips become like Tinderboxes,
Volatile on touch, on feel, on grind,
And like those raptors in the Australian outback,
We carry sticks of fire in our lips,
As we become our own arsonists,
Letting the fire storm us, tip to root,
As we flare up at Christmas time,
Under a wreath of mistletoe.