She lived a long time believing love became tired and worn out after the first flush of passion died down.
Her parents marriage was all she knew. Full of loyalty, her mother and father no longer danced, but trudged through their relationship with the exhaustion of duty and familiarity. If there had ever been a spark, by the time she came along, it had long since died.
Still she wanted to be wrong about love. She wanted the consuming flames of love to reduce her to ashes, at least once.
When he entered her world, she knew love of the safest kind would always pale by comparison.
The way he looked at her, held her, breathed her and ran his fingers along the inside of her wrist set in motion events that would both create and destroy.
She thought it could only last for a heartbeat. She looked over her shoulder when he wasn’t watching, waiting for this broken open feeling to eventually stop.
And yet, it goes on and on. Growing, changing, swelling and ebbing through grief and joy, loss and discovery. They have become part of the exquisite fabric of love in the Universe, woven together by the tendrils of their souls.
He lays on her side of the bed each night so it will be warm when she gets in. He picks her up after work so she doesn’t have to catch the bus in the dark. He phones her during the day to let her know he’s thinking of her. He always kisses her like it’s the first time.
And each day her heart grows fuller and softer. She blurs into him and into the rest of the world, seeing beauty in places where she thought there was none.
Now she lives believing love doesn’t need to be worn down by the passage of time.
Passion need not fade to black like the burning embers of fireworks.
Love clothes her in beauty bringing peace that lays against her sensitive skin. Her heart breaks open afresh each morning as he pulls her into his arms and whispers ‘I’m loving you, baby’.
She glows, melts and drips with pleasure.
The fire is still intense and hot.
And for now, she does not turn to ash.