Fingertips of Yesterday

Some nights, the past lingers in the air,

not in whispers, but in echoes—

loud, reckless, unrelenting.

We were never gentle, never careful.

We loved like fire with no regard for the burn,

crashing into each other, tearing apart,

only to find our way back—

pulling, taking, needing.

No candlelight, no slow unravel,

just fingers gripping, breath hitching,

bodies speaking the truths our mouths refused.

We fought just to feel,

we made up just to break again.

It was chaos wrapped in silk,

a love too sharp to last.

We knew it even then—

knew that passion like ours had no forever,

only moments stolen from the inevitable end.

And yet, on quiet nights,

when the world hushes into stillness,

I remember.

Not with longing, not with regret—

but with the kind of silence

that holds the weight of something once burning,

now only smoke curling in the dark.