We pressed our bodies together
and danced in your parents’ kitchen
beneath the refrigerator light
until two in the morning.
You got tangled up in my metaphors
and our hands were woven together
like the book of poems
I wrote you last fall.
Kiss me, I said.
I want to set the world on fire
with our mouths and
I want the flame to
never burn out.
I spent nights
tracing words across your back
with shaking fingers
and my mornings writing you
love stories on coffee shop napkins.
You sucked the words from my bones
until my typewriter got dusty and
my pen’s ink dried up from the drought.
Break my heart, I said.
I need something to write about.