There is a piano on fire across the street.
We watch the flames grow and spread toward us.
Across the phone wires, and the power lines,
to the roof, walls and edges of our home.
The house burns around us,
the smoke is thick and runs across our skin like a kitten tongues
and stabs our lungs like knitting needles.
“Is your cup full darling?”
“isn’t it though?”
“What agony, this thing. This love.”
“But full cups though.”
Our couch burns and our clothes and hair.
Our eyeballs explode and sizzle and drool down our faces
and fill the corners of our mouths.
We are alone, but together
drunk on the prospect of living forever
but setting fires to make sure we dont.