Fire

Another Saturday I sit sinking into the couch. 

We slid it, sluggish and shrieking, across the pale hardwood floors to face an empty wall. I rest my feet on the coffee table. Tattered notebooks, a vase of dried flowers, singed at the tips, and a dirtied ashtray sit on a red runner. Rob sets three dewy mules in front of me. I watch the ice sing and spin as it collides against the cloudy mason jars. 

We close our bedroom doors to shutter the string lights and coat the living room in gray. The projector sits silently on top of the fridge, beside the oatmeal and coffee beans. It crackles awake, peals back its eyelids, and shines a beam of light over our heads. Baby hairs and dust bunnies float lazily in its orbit. 

The deserted landscapes of Texas stretched out in front of us. Dead and devoid, I wondered if my version of isolation was better. I let the blanket I was under hang off my shoulders, hoping I would feel the Texas sun freckle my skin. 

Rob and Andrew sat down next to me and we drank our cocktails, the ginger biting our tongues. The ice melts and sweats into the cracks of my palms. I notice Andrew rest his head on Rob’s chest. He cradles his thigh in his arm and Rob settles into the cushions to meet him.  

I push myself further into the couch’s arm, as though the heat of their touch burned me. I drift asleep in the crook of the arm rest, my vision fading into dirt roads and burning blue skies. 

I’ll dream of lovers I’ll forget in the morning. 

I’ll wake up alone, burning with want.