The Morning After

Morning
after
we fall
out of our
skin and quarrel as if
we lost our sleep for nights for nothing,
I get up with a start to find the room deserted, the bed
unmade, the folds of your flesh biting back at me for refusing to bite them like you like me to do.
I should have looked past the surface of your sass, past the skin into the undulations of your existence, past the smoke
to the burning cause of your fire. We deserve to burn better.