He was fire.

My love for him was intense and painful. Even our very best days were tinged with wanting. I loved him the way you love something that is fading, something that's dying. I was desperate for more, for something that didn't exist. I scratched and clawed my way through our relationship looking for anything to qualm my aching. It was chaos disguised as passion.

You are the earth.

My love for you was not explosive, nor painful. It was like waking up and remembering exactly where you are. It was natural, effortless. It only dawned on me that I was in love with you after I was hopelessly buried in you. It was like suddenly realizing that what you'd been standing on all this time was soil and sand and solid. You have never wavered. You have been sunlight in the worst of my storms. 

There is something to be said for burning love, but the thing about fires is that they almost always burn out.