My love is a fire.

I am a beacon of light in the darkness. A flicker of safety and shelter. A torch that lights the hidden paths of despair and madness and ugly things we do not want to face alone.

My glow chases away the demons and predators and things that go bump in the night.

I am warmth. Sustaining. Comforting. Chasing the cold of the world from weary bones.

I am the answer to an empty and frigid existence, the cold and dark of an uncaring world.

But, like all fire, I burn.

I am pain and I am suffering. I consume. Give me a chance, just once chance, and I will enfold you, surround you, smother you in light and warmth and flickering life.

I will make your skin go tight and tingle, crackle and go up like so much delicate parchment.

Your insides will quiver, and melt for the heat that is, unmistakably, me.

My touch is the all powerful touch of the sun.

My heat will pervade you. And then it will turn you to ash, to blow away on the uncaring wind, until the fire finds you once more.

Consumption, and comfort. Which will I be today?

I need but a spark. And you will know.

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