The match waits,
its silence crowded with promise.
Even the dark bends closer,
hungry for a flicker.
Heat gathers in the marrow of air,
restless, trembling,
like a name about to be spoken.
Ash ghosts stir in the corners,
recalling the memory of blaze.
The shadows lean forward,
faces pressed to the threshold,
longing for their shape to return.
And then—
the spark leans forward,
knowing what it was made for:
to consume, to transfigure,
to write its hunger in light.
About the Creator
Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales
I love to write. I have a deep love for words and language; a budding philologist (a late bloomer according to my father). I have been fascinated with the construction of sentences and how meaning is derived from the order of words.
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