It started with heat—
the kind that makes you believe
in forever.
Crackling promises,
light licking the walls,
shadows moving like they had purpose.

But fires don’t burn for belief.
They burn for fuel.
And we ran out
quietly.

Now the flame clings,
low and bitter,
spitting more smoke than warmth.
A stubborn thing,
not alive,
just refusing to admit
it’s dead.

No blaze.
No final flare.
Just the long, slow rot
of something once alive.
The wood turns to ash
without complaint,
and the room forgets
what warmth felt like.

We sit in it—
the silence,
the cool.
Pretending we don’t notice
the smoke in our lungs.
Pretending we can fix it
if we just fan harder.

But breath can’t save a dying thing
that wants to go.
And this one
wants to go.

It sputters.
Coughs.
Collapses into itself,
and still we watch
like maybe it’ll change its mind.
Like maybe regret
burns hot enough
to bring it back.

It doesn’t.
It never does.

You stay anyway.
Even when the dark settles in,
and the ashes don’t even glow.
Even when your hands
forget what heat ever meant.
Because leaving feels worse
than watching it end.

And in the end,
all that’s left
is the stink of smoke,
a blackened hearth,
and silence
that used to be
a song.