How A Pheonix Must Feel

There are 56 teeth on the zipper
of her jeans. I know, I counted

while we listened
to music that reminded us
of dim lighting and bathrooms.

The sun oozed in, a blanket of light,
igniting the socks I left on.

We became fluent in ash
our words just basic syllables
flaking into the air.

The sweat made us smolder.
Our conversation turned to bedding

while we collected the soot
in a little teal trashcan
beside her bed.