Red Fire
There is a spell in your hair,
that fierce crown of fire and wine,
a burning I cannot quench—
every strand a whispered promise
of nights that blaze without end.
Your lips—
they are not simply lips,
but the very edge of temptation,
soft curves that make prayers falter,
and oaths break like glass.
I want to taste the heat of them,
to find the secret sparks
hidden in their press.
The pale canvas of your skin
is not a body,
but a scripture written in freckles,
each mark a sacred star,
a constellation I ache to trace
with my tongue,
with my breath,
until I know your galaxies by heart.
Your eyes burn deeper than flame,
molten pools where I lose myself,
and when they find me,
I am stripped of all my armor.
What is left
but the trembling devotion of a man
before a goddess of fire?
Redhead enchantress,
you are fascination made flesh—
the ache I cannot name,
the hunger I cannot tame.
You are love sharpened into desire,
a wildfire draped in silk,
and I—
helpless, willing,
would gladly burn
to keep you close.
