Hazy Lovers

I imagine it as a story
I will tell someone
(many years hence)
of how I took a lover
and explored the countryside of desire
with the abandon of youth.

I imagine him serious
but strangely light in my hands,
fire on my tongue
that lights the room
in a scarlet haze.

In my imagination
I do not see
my broken heart
or the drowning inequality
of unrequited love.

I do not see the years of loneliness
settled into brittle bones.

I only see
the nape of his neck as he bends
to flare as a match once again.