Don't put out my fire




Where's the flame, the fire, the heat?

We’re just comfortable.

What happened to our lust, our pace, our sweats, our fast heart beats?

We’re just comfortable.

Sweep me off my feet, outdoors and not so discrete, fantasies playing on repeat.

To kiss you is bittersweet, I just need to grab at more, it’s not enough to hold hands down the street.

We are just comfortable.

Are you honestly ready to throw in the towel and admit defeat?

It was just a simple conversation, your dad isn’t the distraction, or is he? Just a dip of attraction?

We’re just comfortable, right?

And, you like that. As we both picture futures with land, wooden houses, dog houses, out-houses where we host creatives, tea breaks at coffee houses, buying all our materials from independent warehouses, yes, we want it all. The world is ours.

But, comfortable isn't enough to rein me in.

Comfortable isn’t what I’m here for.

So, while I write away, I ponder the toss up of passion over comfortable. Fire and flames over houses and dogs. You can’t keep my own fire at bay while you try to downplay the importance of sexual display. I need to get away, I need to think if our fires can dance together, in all weathers, what is our love without the fire?

We’re just comfortable.

I’m not OK with comfortable.


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