Pyromaniac (Prose Poem)

The tension of the moment before lips first meet
electricity as visible as the growing desire in your eyes
the air as heavy as an old Spanish red wine
the arousing thought that I don’t love you, that this is just a game. 
This is no fantasy- this is real: 
tenderness turning into warm brutality, 
thoughts exploding, you try to burn me down. Darkness.

The tension of the moment before two people part
the electrical line as dead as my broken dreams
the air as heavy as sulphuric tears
the horrifying thought that I don’t love you, that this is just a game. 
This is no fantasy- this is real: 
Brutal touches brushed away, your breath has left burn marks on my skin: 
Of the explosion I only remember the feeling of being burnt to ashes.

Daylight like water, pouring rain refreshes life, I won’t lose the faith in fire that produces heat without destruction. Out of the ashes I rise to see the future: Pheonix.