Waiting In The Fire

​There is a hollow space that opens up when the noise of the world stops, and in that quiet, it is always you. Even in the dark, even in the silence, my hands reach for yours, only to find emptiness where connection once lived.

​I carry a longing that refuses reason or timing. It is a physical ache. A desire to be seen by you, to be held in the way only a history like ours can hold. It is the kind of thirst that doesn’t realize how parched it is until it tastes the air of what could be.

​It breaks me to know I would walk through fire to find you, and yet you linger in the cool shadows of what is familiar. I am tired of holding the match alone, watching the smoke curl into nothing, waiting for a spark that never catches.

You light my soul on fire, only to withdraw when the flames become too much for you.

​I have always moved toward the fire, preferring the burn of the truth over the comfort of the shadows.

But I have learned that a flame cannot breathe in a vacuum. It requires the open air of choice.

​The weight of wanting you is becoming heavy in the silence. There is a beautiful, terrifying life waiting to be lived, and it haunts me that we are still standing on opposite sides of a door that neither of us has the courage to fully open.

​I am here, in the ache and the honesty. But I cannot linger in the doorway forever.

I am holding you in my heart, waiting in the fire. Hoping that someday, you might step into it with me.