The First Words

Spring, Water, Fire

When we speak, it is much like the first breath of Spring air. The moment when you step outside and no longer feel the biting chill of cold air. But you are instead welcomed with a soft, gentle breeze that is not quite hot, but warm enough to warm your skin and coax you further outside. It is then your eyes alight upon so many wondrous things of Spring. The trees that were bare and sickly are now regaining color, green shoots sprouting from limbs towards the sun. To hear the high-pitched staccato of a baby bird’s inquiry, followed by its mother’s answering call. There is the deadened grass, of which was patchy and yellow in hue, that has morphed into the most luminescent green. Caterpillars are just beginning to form, crawling every which way.
Taking a step further and a june-bug flies past your face, its green-blue shell glinting mischievously in the high noon sun. You curve your lips and feel that flutter of happiness. That joy of a new season, a new warmth and life that you can experience.
Talking to you is like water. It washes through me, cleansing me, giving me clear thought and sometimes not. Sometimes a specific comment can be like a ripple in that water. It slowly echoes through everything else on my mind, touching it with the same influence until there is nothing on my mind but you.
But most of all, talking to you is like fire. It burns in my chest, slowly at first. The soft flame of warmth when my cheeks flush with a shy pleasure at your endearments. Or when there are nothing but words to describe how you feel for me, and so you let them flow. Just as these flow. And then there is the consumption. A lit match falling on dry hay. Tiny at first, just spreading to a few straws, before the wind blows. And everything catches. It roars to life with a deafening sound, blocking out all except for what it aims for. It swirls up, up, higher. Sucking in the oxygen it needs to leave, the same way the oxygen leaves me when my heart stumbles with your charming words. But most of all. Most of all…that fire is like embers. Embers that exist after the wildfire has had its last spark. All that is left are the embers. The remaining warmth. Secretly very hot to the touch. So hot it may burn you, if you are not careful. But they glow with a quiet excitement, ready to blaze once more should anything kindle their passions again. My passions.
Talking to you is many things. It is like Spring. It is like water. And it is like fire. But no matter what talking to you is like, I know that it is something I refuse to cease. Just as I refuse to stop breathing, or stop caring, or eating, or reading. It is something not only my instinct drives me to do, not only something my mind is intellectually interested in, but something inside my essence, far past the physical heart, to the real heart, that beckons me to you like a moth to soft flames.