Playing With Fire

Playing With Fire

As a child I would sit by the winter fire
entranced by flame and orange burning coals;
wait to be alone so I could add my piece.
Watch my scribbled on paper,
my own Bonanza map,
curl, brown, erupt,
consumed.

I became older - they would let me build the fire.
Loose balled paper of yesterday's news;
grid of chopped white wood;
carefully placed black coals.
I would warm my hands until it became too hot.
"You'll get your fingers burned one day"
warned Mother.

But my pyro-fascination consumed me.
Long school summers spent burning my name
into empty cereal packets with my magnifying glass.
The odd stray ant from the nest where the
Anderson shelter once stood
would crisp and pop under my glare;
a six legged rice krispie

And one day she caught me melting
wax crayons in a tin - I loved doing that
watching the colours meld, forming new shapes,
cooling into something new - she smelled
what I smelted
and gave me some more whacks.
I didn't tell her I'd burned my fingers
hastily trying to destroy
incriminating evidence.

But it didn't stop me.

When I met you
I knew I was playing with fire.
But that was the attraction -
a fierce burning passion that could not always be controlled.
We were the perfect match
so long as we did not blow it.

But I look at you nowadays
and sometimes wonder if your outside warmth
is just for effect.
Do you still burn when we touch?
Or are you a pilot light,
blue on the inside,
patiently waiting for new fuel?

Perhaps I will never know.
The one flame I have been unable to control.
Is that why you still fascinate me?

Or is it because when I caress your skin
My fingertips tingle
like they did all those years ago?
I remember that hot tin;
the burning aroma;
my illicit passion.
Maybe it's not love ...
it just smells like it.