The night combusts when your lips split the dark
A struck match dragged across the teeth of the horizon.
You whisper burn in the grammar of smoke.
I answer in gasoline.

---

I.
Your tongue is a lit fuse.
My pulse, the dynamite
Each heartbeat is a detonation of yes, yes, now.
We map the fault lines of the sheets,
tremors building to a crescendo of collapse.

---

II.
Your fingertips, kindling.
My spine, a pyre of dry timber.
You strike the flint of my hipbone,
spark a wildfire that licks the atlas of my veins.
The neighbors call it tragedy.
We call it liturgy.

---

III.
Ash settles in the hollow of your throat.
I trace it like a pilgrim tracing relics
this charred hymn, this ruin of a kiss.
The mirror fogs with the ghosts of our breath.
They cling to the glass like last rites.

---

IV.
Aftermath: a carcass of embers.
You peel an apple with a blade still hot from the blaze.
Juice runs down your wrist, sweet and scorched.
I lick the sacrament from your skin,
taste the paradox creation, cauterization.

---

Epilogue:
Dawn arrives with a bucket of weak rain.
We rise, phoenix-feathered and unrepentant,
our shadows fused to the wall like a fresco of sin.
The city rebuilds. We rekindle.
Somewhere, a struck match laughs in the wind.

 

Your body is a storm I map by braille
lightning in the clavicle, tempests in the tendons.
I am the fool who chases weather,
tongue tuned to the frequency of flood.

---

I.
Your ribs are a cage of crows.
They caw when you laugh, beat their wings
when you arch into the knife-glow of moonlight.
I feed them my fingerprints. They hunger louder.

---

II.
We undress in the dialect of wreckage.
Your zipper, a fault line; my belt, a serrated psalm.
The floor wears our clothes like collateral.
The bed? A pyre of what if.
We burn in increments.

---

III.
Your mouth is a struck bell.
I am the clapper, you are the toll
each kiss a vibration that cracks the hour.
The neighbors complain about the noise.
We call it hymn.

---

IV.
Afterward, you peel an orange.
The juice runs like a confession down your wrist.
I lick the sin from your pulse,
taste the citrus and the copper,
the almost and the never again.

---

V.
The thunder, when it comes, is not sound but shape
your spine curved like a question mark,
my hands the italics in its margins.
We are the footnote, the asterisk,
the asterisk’s aftermath.

---

Epilogue:
Dawn arrives with a broom and averted eyes.
We sweep the night into a jar labeled evidence.
The crows escape. The storm grows teeth.
Somewhere, a bell forgets how to stop ringing.

 

The bridge coughs rust. The river answers in algae and gasoline
a love affair of decay. We meet here, where concrete
blooms its first crack, where pigeons nest in the ribs
of a billboard screaming SALE.

I.
Your laugh is a jackhammer’s stutter.
I collect its echoes in a coffee cup and
drink them cold. The diner’s neon flickers:
EAT becomes ATE becomes Ache.
We are fluent in ruin.

II.
Your apartment: a museum of half-lives.
A TV hums the 2 a.m. psalm of static.
The fridge groans its light a jaundiced eye.
You peel an orange on the windowsill;
The peel curls like a suicide note.

III.
We fuck in the language of eviction notices.
Tenant, you gasp. Landlord, I growl.
The mattress sags its verdict.
Afterward, you chain-smoke dawns,
each exhale a gray flag of surrender.

IV.
The city unlearns itself nightly.
A parking lot swallows a library.
A streetlamp forgets its own light.
You whisper, Stay, as a wrecking ball
swings its first hymn.

Epilogue:
They’ll build a sushi place where we once bled.
The chef will rinse the rice, blissfully unaware
of how your teeth left constellations on my neck
or how the river, still thick with our shadows,
refuses to forget.

 

Q.E.D. (Quod Erat Desideratum)

The theorem of us:
your spine, a radical sign,
my mouth solving for x
find me where the variables burn.

Your laugh is a struck match (a sulfur psalm)
in the chapel of almost. I kneel.
Your hips, parentheses I pried open
inside: a liturgy of yes written in wet ink.

 

The room? A chalkboard.
We prove each other in gradients:
your nails carving axioms on my thigh,
my teeth, a proof by contradiction
Let the equation shatter.

Touch is an incendiary dialect.
Your wrist a cursive scream.
My tongue conjugates your pulse:
1st person, present tense, plural.
(We are the verb. We are the fire.)

You say careful like a blade wants to be swung.
I say devour me in the grammar of scars.
The bed: a pyre of what if.
We burn in hexagons
honeycomb of moans, geometry of more.

Aftermath? A blasphemy.
The sheets, a palimpsest of sweat and almost.
We’ll call it nothing (lie).
But the moon licks its lips
our shadows, still fused, still famished.

This is how theorems become myths:
not with a conclusion but a collision.
Two bodies, one conflagration.
Q.E.D.: quod erat desideratum
what was desired, what was demonstrated.