Brittany Allen's poem is a plea for a certain kind of love: one that stirs the speaker deeply without being destructive. She keeps returning to the line "Set me alight but not by fire," asking to be ignited by words, touch and a look instead. The images of being read like a favourite book, with notes in the margins and creased pages, suggest she wants to be known closely and with real attention.
The speaker sounds hungry for intensity. She asks to be kissed as if it's the last time and loved as if the world is ending. Yet the final stanza softens everything. The "fire" turns out to be comfort: being home after a long day, a first sip of coffee, warm hands in winter. The mood moves from passionate and urgent to tender and settled, as though the deepest kind of spark is also the safest and most familiar.