There is no better time than adolescence to love and be loved,
when we can stay safe in the cocoon of our mothers’ arms,
Fathers watching over, daring anyone to step close.
They have struck signs in our hearts;
To others: “Fear the wrath of my keepers.”
To me, their sweet child, “Fear the wrath of the fire.”
Still, disregarding the warnings,
a stranger braves the watchman’s fury
and I take a chance on faith
to unite as halves,
and then wholly we dream
in the warmth of a sunny meadow.
We pick flowers for each other.
You twirl my hair around your fingers,
I draw mountains on your spine,
and I cannot help but see you in everything.
Your colours dance in the vermilions and magentas that streak the skies as our days end
and, when they do,
you paint us in the stars that follow.
We beg the moon that he never leave
so your masterpiece could be immortal.
We delight in the extravagance of how good it feels
to be together after all those cold years.
We huddle over that fire
which has kept us alive through the calm night,
And we love at a thousand degrees.
But that once-pleasant sun has risen again.
It has washed out your paint with its blinding incandescence,
has stricken its unforgiving light into us,
ripping back that heavenly film that used to blur away our insecurities.
Our senseless romance is a fire now,
and with nothing to contain it,
it burns until it has scorched away all that is green
Good god, how could I have been so foolish,
to step yet again into that deceiving light,
which gives and gives until
we become it,
we became bright.
I run home to my guardians, a child again -
they have missed me
- and I weep into the fabrics that hang off their shoulders.
Father goes to search for the spark,
someone to blame for my pain,
little does he know that
I keep a book of matches within me.
Padula is a contributor for The Millennial Times.