I need a forest fire

I can’t discern which came first,

but I know which burned deeper.
I know now,
the way your knees will
carry you to my rescue.
My madness,
cigarette butts,
an etching on my ashtray lungs.
Your presence?
A forest fire.

A slow calamity.
An outpour; a reckoning;
a thank-you.

Both burned, but one scarred.
Both tarred:
but one scabbed and fell;
the other tore the flesh,
open wound.
If I had waited longer,
I’d never know the sensation.
If I left my house
five minutes outside
of your goldilocks timing,
I’d never know what it feels like
to smell my own flesh on fire.
A forest-y,
cedar-scented,
slow burning
calamity.