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.