I met you in the fire,
we were aflame you and I.
You commented on the weather,
heat with a chance of melting.
You played coy in the flames,
you with red hair and me with
no hot thing to say except
how about this warmth.
I thought that fire
was meant to burn,
An urge for destruction,
a most creative passion.
I guess I lost my nerve
somewhere between the popping
crackling hiss of your eyes,
always a sucker for flames.
Although we met inside inferno,
connection made in burning away,
I feel you like a cool hand
on a cool neck on a cool day.
Although we melt, we are built again.