Hot Cheeto Dust

A truck racing through town.

Or sweet, twisting Twizzlers.

The bottoms of

new Louboutins. The corrections

you read between the lines.

I am the abandoned

ketchup packet at the bottom of the bag—

Waiting, longing for touch.

The sap spewing from a gash.

The product of an accident.

Love faintly expressed on his cheeks.

Her straying, smudged lipstick.

Red Hots and Roses.

The ball of fire brewing

in your stomach,

or the sense of

undeniable seduction.