She wanted a man whose touch would burn, and he learned
her body so well

whole bedsets melted under them. He complains of the ghost
in his hands: a tactile memory

of joint angles, pressure at fingertips, blood vessels constricting
& dilating, preserving the heat

given & taken between stomachs, thighs, mouths. By the end,
she guessed his plan,

wore pants & long sleeves to sleep. It was a transitional summer.
He said love & bodies are always

in flux. For the sake of anthology, she responded, we must bind
lives neatly into novae

of destruction. Or creation. It depends on who is gravity,
and who is the core.