Like a moth to flame,
they'll all come to me eventually.
They'll saunter over,
lackadaisical smile and all,
offer me a word or two,
light the spark in me,
and before they know it--
they have a flame.

But the closer they get,
no matter how beautiful,
no matter the glistening
dancing crimson that was smattered before them
they would never be able to get too close.
Nor could I.
I'd burn them
with a touch, with a smile, with anything more
than mere warmth.
I'd burn through it all.
Their hearts, their charm, their love.
And it seemed, I
burnt my joy while at it too.