The first day I met you,
the leaves were starting to turn red.
You came to me from the mouth of a man
with glasses and a British accent.
You were a word.
From your beautiful face:
a perfectly curved 'C' cheek,
a trim 'm' middle,
and a reach for the stars followed by a trailing root;
to your personality of explosive reactions
and slow-moving science.
I love everything about you.
Yet fate wants to seperate us.
Conniving teachers with monotone voices,
classmates who do not share our passion;
they try to extinguish our bunsen-burner hot love.
I do the best I can to keep the magic alive,
but I seem to be running out of reactants
and the combustion is incomplete.
As I slip into my grade 12 year
the flame has dimmed from sky-blue
to a flickering orange.
The leaves are red yet again.
But a new voice has brought you to life,
and you again fall from my tongue with glee.
The product of burnt fingertips,
and strained eyes.
Your flame flares to white-hot
with the coming winter snow.