combustible

campfire smoke
wafts across my face –
gazing pensively into the fire
wishing for the one
who taught me to burn

Tasting passion

I think I’ve tasted passion.
Once.
For dinner,
on a Tuesday.

It was wrapped
deliciously
in denim and plaid
and tasted
of bacon and
cheap
strawberry wine.

I thought I ordered
passion again-
this time trying it
for breakfast.
I remember
it being much like
the soft-boiled egg
I ordered through
fancy room service-
although
I didn’t have
to sign for the bill.

The last time
passion was served,
I washed it down with
several gin and tonics
and an ice cold beer,
leaving me only
a headache
and thirty bucks
in the hole, with
no memories
worth remembering.

I think next time,
I’ll buy my own strawberries,
wear my fuzzy slippers,
and cook for
myself.