The Appalachian Highlands, Engulfed, with Fervour and Tenacity (or, Why I Always Compare Love Affairs to Forest Fires)

Every time I look into your eyes

I find myself trailing off mid-sentence because

I am more captivated by the dilation of your

gunmetal-grey eyes and how they match

your white-and-grey pinstripe button-up

and those off-black corduroy leggings you wear

than by the small talk we make

I'd rather we make love than idle chitchat

but perhaps that's too abrasive or contorted

for either of our fledgling advances to handle

because honey I can tell when I'm flirting with a girl

but I can't tell when she's flirting back

but in your case it's as subtle as a forest fire

if you were standing any closer to me

we'd be sharing the same hot-red Vans

and I don't think you're my shoe size baby

one thing's for sure

my red Vans and your black corduroys would look

picture-perfect on the floor of your bedroom

lumped together with the gentle care of a ten-car pile up

and bearing the weight of a thousand brightly-burning evergreens

we could cause enough friction to render this entire state ablaze

and give ole Smokey a good run for his fire-retarded money

and never stop until we ignite the entire world

or ignite a fire in one another's hearts

whichever comes first

whichever dies out last