He crept in quietly, like a chameleon.
His lingering kisses took me on a voyage, told a story, with crescendos and denouements.
Usually he chased the sun in one of his rebuilt engines or on one of his many motorcycles, but he hit the brakes when with me.
Smooth, I thought he was water. But in reality, he was fire. He never met a blaze he didn’t love, and he raised it to the high heavens.
It was best not to carry matches around him, best to stay on his good side. He was fuel-injected, his engines modified.
His bonfires were so big they burned your legs, then your back when you walked away. Then he poured gasoline on them.
With others he was a bomb, an ax to grind.
But with me he was soft, spongy moss on the rain forest floor, slowly filling my spaces. Breaths like mist between my trees.
As long as I stayed on the soft side of his blade.
Photo: Maxim Tajer on Unsplash