After the Fire

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close-up photo of a bonfire

You call me honey

alcohol turned vinegar
in your tone
as you flop on the bed


I hate that word now

hate the rankness of your body
in sleep

hate that all we are is short bursts of intimacy
surrounded by long periods

of separation

hate the charred bones that are all that’s left
of fire that melted gold
Into skin

I have buried the bones
between the pages of old love letters

and take them out from time
to time

examining them
as if they were still
a thing
of beauty

Published in Snail Mail Review. Featured image by samer daboul from Pexels.