If you'd asked me a month ago,for whatever reason, I'd tell you I was a little bit of a pyromaniac. I loved the sight of fire.
That was until I felt the heat of her flame, until she smiled at me, and with me, and we danced together. Until her fire was all I could think about hoping it could dance with mine again. Until her fire became what home felt like and even if I knew it would scorch me if I came too close, I would still embrace fully until it completely engulfed me just to feel the warmth of her embrace.
If you asked me today, for whatever reason, I would tell you that I finally understand the "maniac" part in the word pyromaniac because this love has to be some level of insanity, this obsession with you and everything about you from the cuteness of your actions to sexiness of your voice, the care in your eyes or the eroticism of my name rolling off your tongue. I would tell you I am dangerously into pyromania, and I would love to set the world on fire if only to show off to them that I got to live with the pleasure of her light.
