we were no arsonists, just pyros---
our friction sparked passions and sheets that no lube could ever quench.
but, as we've known since grade school cautionary tales, fire is a fickle mistress. still. we courted her with three-way thirst until every fluid we shared ignited; only to be drowned in splatters of the one passionately-- forcibly --taken from flesh broken like bottles and drywall one horrible night... sending embered smoke signals of every hurtful word said for all neighbors to witness, strobed in blueblueredblueredred and enumerated in droll reports that could never accurately describe our escapades--- Sgt. Anderson is no Leonard Cohen; barely read better than an E. L. James novel.
all the same: we're no arsonists, simply pyros--- and these bridges just burn so god. damned. easily.
it's something we each knew about the other-- loved about the other --so the uncontrolled hatred harnessed in the aftermath of us was only premeditatedly obvious to friends, family and county fire marshals with inadequate contingency plans for our relationship's demise: the ghetto gasoline/styrofoam napalm fired off in drunken texts listing defects your body didn't have, responded to by puncturing condoms with habañero oil syringes causing worse-than-chlamydic burns twice as hard to treat. molotovs of sleeping with siblings, agent orange deaths of dogs. on and on, back and forth--- with fires that buckled the steel of the sturdiest bridges until we were alone... chasms of restraining orders apart.
but now, near a decade later, i've salvaged scorched timbers and warped I-beams from a lifetime of failed encounters--- enough to make it halfway across. and i know you like the red flame as much as me so you may not have much left to build with but, if you ever get here, we can watch the red sun set in the smoke of our mistakes together.
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