I am burnt coals abandoned in the rain. My bed is made, teeth aching from retainers. He is all spark, flames and dancing, deep reds and late nights. I’m shy on birthdays and wear pants twice before washing them. He is always forgetting my best friends’ name but remembers our first kiss. We visit Yosemite every year until we don’t. He collects receipts and lets food rot in the fridge. I buy birthday presents for his niece. He starts turning away from me in bed, I start crying on the toilet while the shower drips, drips, runs. We move in together. Our parents visit. We set out cheese. My father criticizes then drinks all the wine. My mother picks her nail, touches my cheek, but says nothing. His dad whispers I’m a placeholder with a nice ass. We visit our families less and less. He pulls me down the hallway, then buys yellow daffodils and never puts them in the vase. I keep saying we’re okay. I practice smiling. He lights matches in the dark, consumed by the flames. I go back home and cry in my mothers’ wrinkled arms. I ask her how to move out, she pats my head and says, “carefully”. He sets fire to the couch, then the table. He says he’s obsessed, his clothes smell of bonfire and taste of acid. I hold him in my arms, his breath warm on my chest as he talks about flames. We set fire to the living room.