Embers That Endure

Love was never the wildfire the stories promised.
It was the ember held in quiet breath,
the one that learned my name slowly,
the one that stayed lit through the lean years,
asking only for presence in return.

Because love isn’t the strike of a match.
It’s the choice to stay near the warmth,
even when the night is long,
even when the wind has opinions.

And the warmth moves closer, though I can’t name it yet.

The Quiet

Not the port in the storm.
You are the weather gone still.
The moment after the breaking,
when nothing moves—
and nothing has to.

I don’t need saving.
I need this:

Your hand in my hair.
The silence that doesn’t need to be filled.
The breath I didn’t have to hold.
The warmth that asked nothing

but stayed anyway.

There’s a pull.
Not desire.
Not fear.
Just gravity
earned over time.

You don’t chase it.
You don’t name it.

You stay.

And in that staying,
something in me exhales.
Not relief.
Not surrender.

Just the part of me
that never knew peace
finding a place to rest.

A Made Bed

 for the first time in years

How long has it been
since I slept in a made bed?

Not in a hotel,
not on someone’s couch—
but mine.

I once told a friend—
your room reflects your mind.
His was spotless,
compulsively so.
I said it kindly,
but never said:
mine stayed closed,
a door I wouldn’t open.

The mess was my armor—
an excuse not to let anyone in.
No lovers,
just silence.
No visitors,
just the weight
of undone things
and a floor that knew my steps
better than anyone else.

Shame settled in like dust.
Corners curled with clothes
I never folded,
meals half-eaten,
nights half-lived.
I told myself
I was waiting
for the next adventure—
or the end of the story.

But tonight,
I hear the dishwasher hum,
the soft tumble of clean clothes,
the lull of white noise
rocking me gently toward sleep.

And I lie down
in a bed I made
with my own two hands.

And I ask, not bitter—
but a little in awe:

How long has it been
since I slept in a made bed?

The Exhale

The vacation—
not the destination,
not the drinks,
not the pictures—
but the quiet.

The absence of the noise.

No radios.
No calls.
No “Chef, can I ask you something?”
No masks to wear.
No posture to hold.

Just space.
Just breathe.
Just the sound of your own mind
settling back into itself
like dust in still air.

It takes three days
for your spine to remember it’s not armor.
For your jaw to unclench.
For your thoughts to stop racing
toward everyone else’s needs.

You forget how much you carry
until you set it down
and hear the ground sigh.

Out here,
you’re not useful.
You’re not a title.
You’re just a man
watching water move,
watching time pass
without asking anything from you.

And the silence?
It doesn’t demand a thing.
It just stays.
And in staying,
it gives back what the noise took.