"Don't touch that. You'll get hurt" my mom exclaimed as I was playing with candles on the first of November.

As a child, I was always fascinated with fire. Who wouldn't? A fire starts with just a flicker, just a tiny hot spark which ignites a flame. It shifts its colors from oranges and reds to blues and purples. I could spend hours watching how it dances, how it moves - always so gentle and soothing. It gave me comfort and warmth.

I never understood why I was forbidden to touch it, but it never scared me. I was told that it could cause pain, but I still continued to touch even the warmest, flaming fires. I got hurt in the process.

When I turned fifteen, I fell in love with a girl. I felt a spark. We ignited, unexpectedly blazed. Just like the fire, she gave me comfort and warmth. Just like the fire, she lights up and glistens even in the dark. "Be very careful" I was told. "You wouldn't want to get hurt again."

But even the warmest fires can turn cool down. Even the brightest fires can be extinguished. Even the blazing flames can turn into smoldering embers. Maybe that's why I was told not to touch anything on fire. It was a lot like love. Even if it brings warmth, too much of it can burn you. Even if it brings comfort, too much if it can hurt you.

Fire can die out.
Love can die out.

Maybe I should have listened. Maybe forbidding me from fire is my mother's way of teaching me about how love burns.