When you first came, we built a fire.
You told me we could both stay warm.
Stirring it with compassion, curiosity, and pure desire,
taking turns to add more logs and fan the flames became the new norm.
We would talk and learn for hours and hours,
laughing so hard as to even block out the storm.

We were warm and the fire burned bright.
But slowly, the longer we spent together, the shorter the night.
I continued with the work,
I'd find the fuel and fan the flames.
Soon, you'd stop talking, caring, trying.
I felt shut out and confused as ever, but stayed awake for nights on end so you could stay warm whenever.

I began to get tired, looking for you I slowly crept.
I called, you didn't answer, but still I stopped and slept.
The fire went from a brilliant blaze to glowing smolder,
quickly, the room got colder.
I began to freeze.
The dark began to creep in and I was afraid.
Afraid of the dark,
and of the cold,
and of anything that could be.
I reached for you and you weren't there.
I looked all around for you, but you could be anywhere.
And of all the things that could ever be,
the places I looked, was only writing. "Trust me."

I trusted you to help me fan the flames.
I trusted you to help me find logs.
I trusted you to help me keep out the cold.
I trusted you to calm me down during a storm.
I trusted you to keep me warm.
But then you stopped.
The room got cold.
And now the fire won't burn.