The sunset was glorious

I shiver.
Hug myself.
Wonder where it all went wrong.

But not really.
We are transient souls
in a house made of smoke
And historically speaking,
the smoke is prone to be
fanned away

So when I saw the dark
clouds I fucking jumped
face first
uncaring if I hit the ground
and knocked out my teeth

because I’m not going to
have a moment of regret
when you roil in
existentialism

Not this time.

When you kiss the
side of my neck,
when your arm
braces my waist,
and the music starts
one
last
time

I will have fucking said it.
I will have fucking done it.
I will not let fear
do more than lick
my spine,
and I’m
going to fucking love
the thrill of it.

You’re fucking right.
I want to burn.
And you have that
old box of matches
in your pocket.

So I’m kissing you
open-eyed
as I bring your hands
back to my throat
and grind against
the pocket where you keep
the matches

until
you lift the tip of
one to the tip of my
soul

And the last dance
will end this time
as I lay you back,
lower myself
on your face
and stare up
at the night sky
enraged,
and on fire
without a fucking
ounce of remorse

When the sand here is perma-scorched;
a landmark to asshole poets
who say beautiful
shit about the sunset supernovas
that one time
that last time

I’ll smile for having witnessed it,
add my salt to the water
leave a bouquet of wilted daisies

and fan the smoke slowly
into my eyes