What the Coals Remember

By the time the sparks stop

writing their brief constellations

into the dark,

The night has already moved on

without telling us.

The fire is smaller now.

a quiet red animal

curled in on itself,

breathing in shallow, glowing sighs.

We have run out of stories

big enough to match its heat.

You trace circles on your mug,

I study the black bark of the wood

as it falls inward,

Each crack is a soft surrender.

We used to make wishes

on flames this bright—

Now we just make peace

with whatever they’ve burned away.

The last tongues of light

lick at the edges of charcoal,

not hungry anymore,

only reluctant to leave.

They paint your face in flashes:

half in blazing memory,

half in the cool blue

of what comes next.

Outside, the cold waits patiently.

cheek pressed to the windows,

counting down the embers.

Inside, we sit in the hush

after the orchestra has stopped playing,

ears ringing with everything

We didn’t say.

When the final coal

shrinks to a dull, stubborn eye

and closes,

We don’t announce the ending.

We let the dark settle

like a blanket still warm

from someone who just stood up.

In the ash,

a thin line of heat

threads through the gray—

not a promise,

not yet—

just the simple truth

that even endings

stay warm

for a little while

after they’re gone.