It's Not Love

Christmas lights touching the very soul of me with their colorful light. Reminding old memories to come and watch the parade that is remembered tonight of my Mom, and a childhood lost upon the sea of aged growth. Tinkling brilliantly from olden days at Grandma's house when I was just a baby. Wanting to reach out and touch the prettiness of what I saw. Quickly feeling the burning heat given off by the bulbs, electrically. Pulling quickly away, blowing cool breath to take the sting away. Watching out of the corners of my tears as they taunted me again and again with their beauty. Standing afar as Mom kissed the burn away, then sitting cross-legged on the floor to stare angrily at the way they are. Just like me, not wanting to be touched by anyone, only they have the protection of burning heat where I have none. Later little eyes silently staring, watching the beauty of the painful lights of childhood experience.