Some people say love is fire—flame fanned into inferno. A raging that all too predictably burns through the years, fades into smoldering, burns down into ash, soot that cannot be rekindled. I say that soot is dust, swept up by gravity to fly, untouched by time, with ice, a comet. Bright in the vast azure deep of night, a flare in the frozen emptiness of space. A hot, cold candle, magnified beneath the glare of solar wind.
Perfect by Ellen Hopkins (Cara)(Source: coltivare, via coltivare)