Waltz in the Firelight

The violins breathe smoke tonight.

We circle the edges of warmth,

pretending not to see the ash beneath our feet.

Your hand finds mine-soft, deliberate-

and the world folds inward,

like a curtain drawn against the stars.

The fire hums a slower song,

each note a promise dressed as mercy.

We sway in rhythm with our undoing,

our shadows kissing before we do.

Heat curls around the hems of our clothes,

gold and grief stitched into the same thread.

Now the room is only light.

Our steps dissolve into sparks.

Still, we turn-

beautiful in the burning,

faithful to the final measure,

as if ruin were a kind of grace.