I do not meet you in the cold,
where lovers speak in quiet tones,
where hands are measured,
where kisses are polite.

No, love—
I meet you where the air is thick,
where my breath knots in my throat,
where your body is a fever
I will never shake.

I do not cool in your presence,
you do not burn out in mine.
We are not opposites,
not the neat arrangement of balance.

We are the heat itself,
the wanting, the ruin,
the thing that will never stop.