What the Fire Knows

I used to think endings were loud—

doors slamming, bridges cracking,

the final flare of something

too stubborn to die quietly.

But this time, the fire teaches me otherwise.

It burns down slow.

Almost tender.

Like it knows I’ve lost enough already.

I sit with it—

the last ember pulsing like a tired heartbeat,

a soft orange apology for all the things

I should’ve said sooner

and all the things I should’ve walked away from

years before they turned to smoke.

I think of every version of me

that warmed their hands at the wrong flames—

love that blistered,

faith that scorched,

grief that left soot in my lungs

for seasons I don’t talk about.

And yet

this small light refuses

to become nothing

Even as the logs collapse in on themselves,

even as the ash gathers like gray confession,

the ember holds.

A single stubborn spark

in a world convinced I should’ve gone cold by now.

Maybe endings aren’t death.

Maybe they’re the quiet moment

when the fire exhales

and says you can finally set down

what was burning you from the inside.

So I watch it fade—

not with fear,

but with a strange kind of mercy,

like burying a friend

you loved too hard to keep.

When the last flame finally slips

into the dark,

I don’t reach for a match.

I just sit with the warmth it leaves,

and let the night remake me

from whatever still glows