I remember talking about your collection of rocks,
the names all beautifully foreign to me,
amethyst, citrien, lazurite, tourmaline....

I remembered your reason for seeking them,
how their glittering innards were proof 
that nothing is ever really an accident,
you said touching them connected you to something,
that they were like the Earth's secrets in your hand.

The sun had already gone down and fireflies 
were beginning to swirl through the neighborhood,
heat clinging to the concrete like a warm ghost
and your lips suddenly crashed into my own,
a first kiss that tasted like strawberries. 

I remembered hands running through red hair,
maybe it's why I'm still obssessed with fires.

I remembered every freckle on your fair skin,
how they seemed to resemble faint constellations
touched by the vibrant June moonlight in a way 
that I'd compare to every woman I'd come to know.

Maybe that's why I'm still obsessed with stars.

And this was before I knew anything,
before I knew what lips could 
ignite against a craning collarbone,
before I knew that being inside
was the most natural and sacred dance
that two could ever be enjoined in.

I knew that a kiss can be more than enough.

I told myself to just remember that your eyes 
matched the favorite mineral in your collection,
the deepest sky mirrored on the ocean,
the Earth's secrets in two opalescent orbs.

To remember the soft silk in every fiery strand
and the barely audible moan that was still 
passing through parted lips when pulling away,
a phantom sweetness that never really left,
but your body pressed to mine felt like proof
that nothing ever happens to us by accident.

Maybe that's why I'm still obsessed with fires.

Maybe that's why I'm obsessed with constellations.

It was the first time I felt connected to something.