Do you remember the night we first made love? I do. I remember the feel of your hand on my hip, the taste of your sweat on my lips. I remember how my body thrilled at the feel of your kisses across my bare throat, the whispered murmurs of adoration.

Mostly, I remember the morning after. You were laying across the foot of the bed, with the sheets wrapped around your hips, carelessly nude from the waist up. You were smiling as you watched me sleep, and your beautiful, beautiful brown eyes were soft and loving.

I could have gazed into them forever.

You’re outside my door now, but you’re not there any more. Your voice doesn’t murmur sounds of love, but guttural grunts of feral hunger.

You’re gone, and I’m still here.

I’ve poured gasoline over my body. I’m holding a lighter. In a moment, I’ll open the door. I’ll let you in, and you’ll come for me, your teeth bare in savage fury, tearing out my throat.

I’ll flick the zippo, and look up. I’ll gaze into your eyes and burn with you forever.