Skin grafts don’t have sweat glands

 
You lit the fire and
left it to melt our flesh.
 
We stand,
feet still smoldering
masses of burn tissue
barely cooled enough to touch
 
and I wonder….
 
If your lips yearn
to linger slowly on the
new topography of my
scar-puckered dermis,
as much as when
my skin made angels fall.  
 
and I wonder…  
If your gnarled hand  
itches to catch the back of  
my neck  
when there’s no curtain of hair
to tickle your forearm
 
and I wonder…  
If you’d kiss my ragged eyelids
bereft of lashes and brows  
as my mottled fingertips
traced your face
searching for something familiar
 
We stand alone together
barely breathing in our
melted flesh
 
and I wonder if we still
feel the same