It's not the love itself that burns, but the hunt.
From coast to coast, tire scorch and gasoline
in my wake or chemtrails for the flyover states.
Watch and wonder where I'll come down hard,
wheels sparking tarmac, raising alarms.
I made up my mind--and yours--
left nothing for the return trip.
It was a yes or no question that set me off,
your hemming and hawing
over our future an accelerant.
This is the mystery of combustion
you will solve too late.
I'm already in your city, your street, your bed
with my hair of embers on your pillow.