When I kiss you I taste smoke between my lips but do not think of burning. The crackle of flames has always been a homely thing – you invite me to warm my fingertips by your hearth.
When you make matchsticks out of my nerve endings I do not think of arson. I think of laughing, tracing sparklers bright and fizzing in the Autumn air. You write your name along my hip bones and the letters don’t fade so easily.
And when I burn for you, I do not think of water.
I think this is just like the movies.