Her and I Caught Fire — The Christian Satanist

She was the kind of summer that makes winter sound like a threat.
We caught fire the way dry wood catches — without ceremony, without permission, just the first touch of the right heat and suddenly, everything.
I don't know what we were. Too honest for casual. Too unfinished for forever. Just two people who recognized something in the other's eyes that neither of them had been able to name before.
We burned through entire evenings talking about the things people normally keep behind their teeth. She laughed at the dark parts. I loved her for that.
And when the summer ended, the way all real things end — not with a goodbye but with a slow fading of frequency — I did not grieve the way I expected.
I was just grateful. Grateful to have been someone's brief and total flame. Grateful to have found, even briefly, a fire that spoke back.
Some people are seasons. You don't ask a season to stay. You just live inside it while it lasts, and carry the warmth long after the leaves turn.

From the collection

Your Weird, Your Wounds, Your Why

68 pages. 5 movements. Poetry from the edge of shadow and revelation.
What you feel is not a flaw. It's a fire.

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