Her Fire

I have drawn my death one thousand times.
I have never written it,
So I continue to breath,
But breathing brings thought
And thought is like the fire –
A common mistake
Bathing in assumptions,

I had been entranced, enamored,
Drunk as bees on honeysuckle wine,
Ignorant of my oaths,
My sting forgotten.
I was in her fire,
Drawn to its promise of death,
Confused moth.
Her hands played across ancient muscles,
That itched like paper dreaming of its wooden origins,
Thin, flat tree children,
Will bear no fruit without your seed.
A lifetime of soil had stained us.
I realize a bitter becoming.