Flames

She remembered the heat of his touch through the thin cotton sheets. Gentle, kind, gauging.
And she remembered the cool metal against her chest, slightly towards the left.
He could hear the beating of her heart- wild, terrified and befuddled
So could she, as she lay stunned by the rippling surge of pleasure that filled her body.

But the moment didn't last.

And nothing could save her from the one that followed.

As the nameless happiness left, in its wake came a jolting realization. The nostalgia for what she'd just lost and what she'd never gain.

He left her ward with his wide back towards her, as she caught a final glimpse of his white coat vanishing behind the door.

He could see her.

She couldn't.

Wouldn't.

Never again will she look in the mirror and smile.

She cried softly, for the girl she'd lost.

For her smooth skin that now remained charred.

She remembered the heat of it's touch- burning, malicious, ravenous.
And she remembered the searing cloth clinging to her face, slightly towards the left.

She sighed, fanning the fire ever more.

Home of the Wanderer

He wanted to love her truly-
her eyes, her smile, her smell,
He wanted to make her laugh,
and catch her whenever she fell

But her eyes were hollow
and her smile long dead,
her heart smelled of carnations,

drying on a grave that said:

"Here lies a soul meant to float-
breeze through triumphs and losses-
beware of holding on to her, O Stranger,
if your life, she ever crosses!"

So his life, he decided,
would be her very home-
the place to which she'd inevitably return

But her home without her,
stands silent and haunted,
in the whistling woods, just waiting to be burned

The House is still his life
each brick, each crack,
every stone, every bone,
every breath held back.