poetry by fire

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"All men kill the thing they love." - Oscar Wilde, 1898.

If only these bedsheets could talk;
The world would know everything we are.
They'd know how you stroke the stubble across my face as your heart begins to beat; to race;
They'd know how you've always loved my arched back;
How you've always adored the rush of feeling under attack.
Imagine a world where our wildest dreams come true;
One where we didn't feel the need to hide ourselves; to do what we do.
In the shadows we love; in the light we're liars;
Pseudonyms publish this poetry by fire.

A student drowning in English literature;
And a man hoping to save his very near future.
What would happen if sparks flew and love grew?
I heard they killed somebody like you.
We can kiss in the stairwell as we hope our heaven doesn't go to hell;
We can bat our eyes like we forgot to blink;
As long as the people around us don't start to think;
To think that you and I have been bound by fate;
To think that you and I have found something great.

But when I bolt my apartment door; locked.
Every fear and nuance flys out the window.
As do our clothes; in the breeze they are lost;
My body is yours to know.
I study each muscle and every scar on your skin;
I can sense a dominance in your definition.
You dance your fingers across my chest; they rise as you reach my collarbone;
We are one in this coveted home.
Naked is a state we often acquire;
This love is fuelled by this poetry by fire.

As peaks are reached and mountains are climbed;
We glance in the mirror to find your skin on mine.
Your jet black hair sleeps on a man once innocent;
As my legs wrap around a creature so magnificent.
We can be tangled here in time for as long as we like;
We both know; for when we step outside;
Villains cremate heroes, lovers and liars;
They must never have read such poetry by fire.
You must leave before me or we risk collapse;
We both know our hearts can't handle that.
A kiss goodbye may seal this moment;
Similar souls reclaiming what's about to be stolen.

As you leave it's just I and your wake;
A love blossomed in the crack of two hearts broken by the break;
I use the stars to countdown when I'll next breathe you in;
"Until the next time I can repeat my falling in love with him."
Your taller than me; I've found my prose in a place much higher;
A land of lust; a land inhaling the smoke of this poetry by fire.

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