The Last Flame

I sit beside the fire

as it begins to fade.

The flames are smaller now,

less eager,

moving as if they understand

this moment is final.

Earlier, the fire was loud.

It filled the space with light,

pushed back the dark,

and warmed everything around it.

Now it speaks softly,

each flicker slower than the last.

The wood breaks down gently.

What once burned bright

no longer fights to stay.

It releases itself

without anger or fear.

I watch closely,

not to stop the ending,

but to learn from it.

Fire has a way of teaching

when it is almost done.

It shows how endings

do not always arrive with pain.

Sometimes they come

with understanding.

The flame bends inward,

pulling its light closer,

changing from orange to red,

from red to a quiet glow.

It feels like a deep breath

before sleep.

Ash begins to form,

soft and gray,

covering the place

where movement once lived.

Ash may look empty,

but it holds memory.

It proves something was here.

It proves something mattered.

I think of the endings

I once feared—

relationships that ended,

paths that changed,

dreams that closed their doors

without explanation.

I thought endings meant loss.

The fire teaches me otherwise.

Endings mean transformation.

They mean rest after effort.

They mean making space

for something unseen.

The last flame flickers once,

a final act of light,

then disappears

into the quiet.

No noise follows.

No regret remains.

The room cools slowly,

and darkness returns

to its rightful place.

Nothing feels broken.

I stay where I am,

learning how to sit

with what has ended,

learning that silence

is not emptiness.

Beneath the ashes,

warmth still lingers.

Not enough to burn,

but enough to remember.

The fire is gone,

but its lesson stays—

that every ending

leaves something behind,

and every fading flame

makes room for beginning.