When the Fire forgets My Name

The fire was once my friend.

It hummed like an old song,

soft, trembling against the cold bones of night.

Each spark carried a memory —

laughter by a campfire,

promises whispered too close to the embers.

But every flame, no matter how bright,

eventually begins to remember its end.

Smoke curls like regret —

gentle, grey, and impossible to hold.

I watch the last light

fold itself into silence.

And in that silence, I hear everything —

her voice still lingering

between the crackle and the sigh.

She said endings are not death,

they are transformations in disguise.

Now the fire forgets my name,

but the ashes still remember.

I trace them with my fingertips,

finding warmth in what remains,

finding peace in what refuses to stay.

The night closes its eyes,

and I do the same.

Maybe endings aren’t endings at all —

maybe they are just

a softer kind of beginning.