Burning

My dreams burn;

the inner-most places of my body and soul,

guarded for light years

by ice-walls,

from anyone’s touch,

burn with memories.

My blood burns,

with the heat of the bed,

now cold,

my skin with blisters and scars,

my tongue with the taste of salt.

My mind burns,

with his voice and the music,

with the scent of spice and sweat and smoke,

with pictures of him in that bed with another.

My heart burns itself to ashes,

with the pain of cold empty space,

and the coals of the flames it once felt.