They say she once smelled of burning ashwood and cinnamon.
The smoky aroma enveloped her being year round,
although she thrived in December, for she could easily emit enough warmth to keep herself from relying on the space in front of the fireplace.
It was of no necessity,
but every so often,
when the heat got the best of her and she feared no one could ever love a girl who scorched the very ground beneath her,
she sat there and enjoyed the way the flames lit up in pretty colors.
It was here she first wondered,
“how could something so beautiful be just as dangerous?”
The next night she marveled at the dying flames in awe as it began to reach well after sunset.
She found herself accompanied by a slender, blue boy.
His fingertips stained of a light mulberry,
and his nose rubbed painfully red with the bitterness of winter.
As she stared with desire into the soft, ashy dust of what was once a raging fire,
he gently pointed and cupped her chin in his hands.
“You could be gentle.”
“You could be tamed.”
She met his frostbitten lips and welcomed his sleet covered body with open arms.
His smile distracted her as he created singes that scattered every inch of her body.
Now she lays in the snow each morning,
a dying ember of hope.
She worships the hiss of the withering flames each night hoping he will find his way back to her.
But he is marveling at the crunch of the autumn leaves,
or humming along to the faint spring birdsongs,
And she chases after the cold, numb feeling his winter always leaves behind.
They say she once smelled of burning ashwood and cinnamon.

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