napalm lovers, wet
and wild with scorn

the summering fragrances of
our youths — the mists thriving
on your lips

goaded into pitfalls of remembering,
this pheromonal.

as mountains bathed in moonrise,
her fingers are sunrays,
her fingernails axial,

these dances in secret;
i grow sins in this

there is no finer rhythm than
these harmonious accidents;

we collide and create craters
upon each other’s skin

until tomorrow we pretend
we can be whole again.

— A. P.

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