Firestorm Fusillade

Kiss me like you want to be loved.
I’ve been mumbling speech in my dreams,
about how we could ignite something infinitely beautiful together
and cast it over a meteor shower.

Because for me, love is like missile,
an unstable, frenzied crystal—enabled to blow
up an entire dystopia.

A firework cannot compete
with our pursuit for enchantment;
the kind of adrenaline incantation
impossible to defy pressure.

We’re flaming locks of Hera’s fog;
resilient fervor.

Infuse me with the taste of smog,
scandalizing the scene.

So please press your lips on mine—don’t disguise a pose.
Or, prevent the storm by babbling prose.
Since I have five—four—three—two—one seconds
‘til I explode.


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