Fire

I always liked the summer more than any other season. There is a certain freeness I feel in letting my skin soak the light and the heat.
The heat makes you feel its presence as it arrives. The cold, on the other hand, is the absence of any kind of warmth.
I always did have a problem letting go.
And so I’d rather have too much of something, feel the harsh heat on the back of my neck, than feel it slowly escape and change into a shiver running down my spine.
So I’ve decided.
I’ve decided that I’d rather the world end in fire than ice, Mr. Frost. (Ironic, much?)

I’d rather feel the blistering heat eat away at my skin than have the cold kill me from inside.
I’d rather burst into flames, licking the skies above at least once before I die, than be one with the earth.
I’d rather catch a glimpse of all my memories, than see them one by one, that way I’ll know what I treasured most.
I’d rather feel the incessant warmth, and think of it as
Every last hug, a little too tight,
Every last kiss, lingering on for just a while,
Every interruption, not stopping for a breath,
Every purge of ideas, too many to be said.

The insatiable soul inside me does not know the meaning of “too many or too much,
It’d much rather be set aflame than ebb away at a cold touch.

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