According to Tacitus, a senator and historian of the Roman Empire,
the Great Fire of Rome burned for six days straight.
Three districts were completely destroyed. After you left, I burned
for 234 weeks in a row; even when I swam all the way to Canada
and burrowed under all the lakes there, my flames still didn’t go out.
By now, her mouth must be like one of those tiny bees, the kind
that sting almost unnoticeably and leave red welts where the victim
least expects them. Your white shoulders are probably
covered in her kisses, I see you calling her name as the sky
turns to pink ash, the apples on the counter already rotting
with no one left to cut them up. You know what my mother did
when I was a child to keep the uneaten fruit fresh?
She poured lemon juice over it and sealed it in the refrigerator
for a single week. I don’t know why, but language always fails me
when I need it most. Well, now you can have the way we fucked
at midnight with my hands between your legs, you can have
the repetition of our history together, the important dates,
the gilded crowns I pressed upon your spine with my tongue.
Here, you can have your heart back, too: you stole it once
and I swore I wouldn’t press charges.
Give it to her instead, for she probably needs it more.
Soak it in lemon juice, so it won’t rot
when she takes it in her arms, like I once did.