by Rae Rozman

Last night, I dreamt of us
on a warm fall evening
sitting beside a campfire
Tom Petty crooning
Wildflowers
from unseen speakers
passing a bottle of bourbon
back and forth.

You wore your winter coat
(the lavender one)
despite the heat.

I burned.
Took off pieces of my clothing
and threw them
one by one
into the fire
the flames turning aubergine and amber.

Naked, I stood before you:
radiating, pulsing, threatening to combust
lava flowed through my veins
down my thighs.

I went to you
laid you down on the hot ground
(orchids bloomed between your fingertips).
My fingers melted the zipper of your coat
turned it to wax
that ran between your breasts
down your stomach
across your thighs.
You shivered.

I breathed infernal heat
my tongue against yours
steam fogging my vision.
You tasted of pomegranates and coconut lattes.
You were cold.
So cold.
I drew you closer
and your lips
turned blue.
&

Rae Rozman

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Rae Rozman is a middle school counselor in Austin, Texas. Her work, which has been featured in several literary magazines and anthologies, often explores themes of queer love (romantic and platonic), brain injury, and education. You can find her sharing poems, book reviews, and pictures of her rescue bunnies.

Artist: Julia Maumann