It’s always the fire that gets talked about.

The heat,
    the hands,
    the breathless kind of knowing.

And yesterday?

There was no shortage of fire.

From the first drink,
     it was there—
     threaded through every glance,
                      every word,
                      building,
                      rising,

     waiting for the moment when waiting was no longer an option.

And when the moment came—
   it swallowed us whole.

Again. (And then again.)

And now—
    today is quiet.

Or at least, it should be.

She’s sleeping,
      or curled up with Coal,
      making up for lost hours,

      for all the time we stole from the night.

I should be resting, too.

But here I am,
    back at Irby’s,
    with pub food and sports,

    pretending my mind isn’t still somewhere else.

Because after all that—
        after all this—

I don’t just want more _of_ her.

I want more *with* her.

The kind of more that doesn’t need to be set on fire.

A couch,
  movie,

  popcorn tossed without aim.

Something slow,
          safe,
          soft—

          something that lets us breathe.

Because if last night
        was the burn,
        then tonight:

I just want…
            the weight of her against me.

The kind of warmth that lingers,
                    not ignites.

The _afterglow_