Our mothers have once taught us not to play with fire. We all know that regardless of the mystery, the beauty, and everything else that lures us to the secret this gaseous warm light holds, we know that fire can hurt us. That it can recoil. That we can get burned.
I’m playing with fire here. Two years, and now I have a fighting chance to finally know you, and an absentee boyfriend whom I’ve invested so much on and promised a lot of things (e.g. Marriage) yet still hasn’t made an effort for me.
This is a risk. A huge risk that can burn me. I should stop this. I wouldn’t want to get caught up with fire’s beauty and mystery. Maybe I’m supposed to leave it that way.