I still singe my fingers on her, the way I always did as a
kid in my grandmother’s kitchen, told not to touch the flames, I can never
resist,. Even this late in the game when I ought to have learned from
experience and yet cannot hold back, to touch or tase, even though she is far
too hot to handle, too sweet and not get stung, I can’t help but let myself get
singed, again and again, even in memory, even when distance should make it all
safe, a remote romance, unrequited, as best it should be, I know if allowed in
her kitchen I will only cook myself, singe more than just my fingers, so I
settled for recollections of the burning I felt back then, when we came too
close, her open flames roaring over me until my wings melted and I grew too
dizzy to think, and not all this because of what I might feel when touching or
being touched, but for the face she is what is, an irresistible flame that
still illuminates my life, and I cannot help wishing to be near her – too near.
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