Burn Wise
Wood smoke cannot be contained, though persuaded to linger in the slope of your shoulder then visited by the keen talent of my pug nose. I want to consume every bit of your clothes, mouth full of moth balls, nibbling my way down into your skin, where teeth give way to lips; sweetness contained by an ever-quick, viperish tongue at last loosed and left to play on the rollercoaster of your clavicle, hoping to make you feel something more substantial than the transience of your brain burning so smoke heavy.