Fire Knows Its Own At the hour when the world holds breath, When names lie dormant in the dark, I felt a summons not of voice But of heat that left its mark. No hand reached out. No vow was sworn. No promise bent the air. Yet something old within my blood Stood suddenly aware. Not hunger born of mortal want, Nor thirst that begs release, But the ache of flint remembering The shape of ancient peace. Fire knows its own when embers stir, When ash begins to glow. It answers not to command or plea But to what it knows. Stand with me at the edge of flame, Neither taken nor undone. Fire knows its own… And still I burn. She sang in symbols, not in flesh, In velvet sound and rune, A cadence drawn from older nights Than lover’s oath or moon. Each syllable a circling spark, Each pause a measured snare, Until the marrow learned the truth Before the mind was there. The spell was not to bind my will Nor bend my breath to hers, It only named the trembling place Where what survives confers. Fire knows its own when embers stir, When silence starts to breathe. It does not rush to claim or close What dares itself to be. I do not kneel. I do not flee. I stand where heat has grown. Fire knows its own… And calls me home. This is the vigil before dawn. The moment before the flame. The space where touch has not yet formed But nothing feels the same. No grasp. No fall. No stolen breath. Only the pull that stays. Only the fire that teaches flesh How longing learns to wait. I have burned through years like timber dries, Each decade fed the flame. Yet still I stand, unconsumed, Though never quite the same. If she should watch from just beyond The circle of the pyre, Let her know this truth remains I honor what I fire. I do not chase the spark she cast Nor smother what it gave. I let the heat instruct my bones In how the living behave. Fire knows its own when embers stir, When night begins to wane. It does not promise absolution Nor freedom from the flame. If she should feel this answer rise And recognize its tone, Fire knows its own…
