Held by the Fire

a combustion of memory and meaning

There is a darkness that lingers in the spaces between- longing and fulfillment, grief and healing, knowing and not yet knowing.

The fire crackled, sure and strong, sending sparks spiraling into the night like tiny fireflies.

That longing is not a flaw but a compass—guiding, pointing true, even in the dark.

Smoke wove into our sweaters, into our hair—the kind of smell we’d carry with us long after the fire died down.

With my words, I can light lanterns along the path—not to erase the darkness but to reveal what is already there in its midst.

No one hurried to fill the silence. We just sat—wrapped in the hush of the evening, the firelight casting shadows on familiar faces, time slowing to a gentle pause.

Beauty does not need an audience to be sacred. Somewhere in the distance, the wind rustled through the trees, the dry leaves whispering to one another.

Like breathing in crisp air after a long night, knowing that even when we cannot see it, the dawn always comes.

If my words could offer light in unseen places, a steadying hand for weary hearts, a gentle reminder that even in the darkness, we are never without hope—then that would be enough.

We stayed like that, held in the soft edges of the night— the fire a quiet tether, drawing us near. Smoke curling, embers glowing, the fire holding us as much as we held each other.

Lighting lanterns,