The Last Fire

The Last Fire

I watched the fire tremble at the edge of night,

its red tongue licking the air, then shrinking back,

a shadow of warmth folding into the cold,

I held my breath as if it could return.

The sparks rose like tiny ghosts,

hovering, fragile, refusing to disappear,

each one a memory caught between light and ash,

the silence stretched wider than the dark.

I traced the shape of the flames with my eyes,

how they curved and bowed before the inevitable,

how they drank the air hungrily,

then sighed, exhausted, and let it go.

The logs had given all they had,

their edges blackened, their hearts hollowed,

I felt the ache of surrender in the smoke,

the slow retreat of warmth into the night.

I thought of what remains when fire ends,

the faint scent of burnt wood in my hair,

the embers glowing like soft, stubborn hearts,

the promise that even endings hold a spark.

A single flame lingered, trembling alone,

its light a whisper against the heavy dark,

I realized endings are not silent,

they are the careful folding of all that burns.

The night drew its shadows closer,

the fire finally let me see,

that even as it fades, it leaves something behind,

a glow in the mind, a fire in memory, a hand in mine.

when the last flicker vanished,

I did not feel the cold as loss,

I felt the space for something new,

the quiet invitation to begin again.