Things we left to the Fire

I meet him at that little bar up the road, my heart two skips ahead of me.
It’s been a while.
We smile broadly, it’s only polite.
Our words trip over each other until filled glasses come to our
rescue. And we’re moving right along.
He speaks with armed teeth, a mouth of bullets as my hands grip my
drink clumsily and I hear them. Screaming. Becoming unwired. Pondering
the flesh below the curve of his spine.
My mind comes apart like fairy floss. Tongue lose, missing his salt and musk and I follow a late second.
I admit having turned to boys with noisy fingers and louder lips but
don’t mention my head having been far away, somewhere full of shhh…
and tree choirs, my arms outstretched and spinning so fast the world
became one big comet in front of my eyes.
I don’t wish to know who’s skin has been resting beneath his hands,
because frankly it still makes me feel sick.
Success stories outdo each other, achingly aware of their insignificance.
We sit there a while, my past and I, contemplating all the things we
left to the fire and I grow irritated and hurt at the lack of them.
I think how funny it is.
How funny to love and hate in such equal measures.