I don’t burn.

My skin caught on fire at the way you said my name. 

Just kidding. Is that what you wanted me to say? We're too different, you and I. You have the spark of life in those eyes, with an eagerness to please in the upturn of your lips. Like me, your smile says. I almost wish I could obey. Yet, herein lies the issue: where your fire burns bright and full, my ice spreads cold and thin. 

Oh, it's not your fault. Your fire is beautiful, and it will grow and burn without me. 

I am not broken, nor am I damaged. I adore the chill that seeps deeper within me than most could fathom. I appreciate that my environment is difficult for others, in that it assures me only the best for me can stand to stick around. No, this doesn't make me special. This makes me my own. I can live unapologetically, and so can you. 

I admire your tenacity. Your love for life and your heated energy can be quite infectious. It's a wondrous thing, I admit. It simply isn't meant for me. 

So I'm sorry, sweetheart. My skin will never burn for you. That's alright though, isn't it? I can admire your flame from afar. I can appreciate the beauty of something without yearning for it to be mine. The world needs more of that.