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I didn't start the fire.

I remember the first time I saw your hands shake
shake like mine, just like mine
as you held the stump of a cigarette
and tried to smile, just tried to smile.

We walked home together that night
but first we walked for miles
and your face looked like lightning
or fire, bright burning fire.

There was no wine on your breathe those days
no whiskey in your walk, just a hint of
tabasco on your tongue,
twist in your talk.

But it all exploded, like a lime burst
in your gin and tonic,
a cinnamon flame
spicing rum.

You used to hold my hand the way you hold
that pint glass,
firm and sure
this is what you want.

And I stuck to you like honey,
thick and sweet and heavy,
not fast and liquid, like whatever's at the bottom
of so many bottles.

You let me crystallize, crystal eyes
crystal like wine glasses,
broken at the bottom of the staircase,
broken at the edge of your mouth.

The house is in flames now, burnt down
by the fire in your mouth, the heat living
on your tongue.