I had forgotten the language of fire,
How words could burn and rise, inspire.
For years, my heart lay cold and still,
A hushed and empty, barren hill.

But then he came, with a quiet spark,
A light in the void, a song in the dark.
His presence a key, unlocking the door,
To parts of myself I’d lost before.

He stirred the ashes, he fanned the flame,
Awakening passions I could not name.
Poems poured forth, creativity bloomed,
A garden of love where shadows loomed.

Not since sixteen had I loved this way,
So fiercely alive, so willing to stay.
He reminded me of what it could be,
To love without fear, to simply be free.

But now he is gone, his light withdrawn,
And the fire he lit flickers at dawn.
My pen grows heavy, my heart turns cold,
As the warmth he gave begins to fold.

He was my muse, my radiant sun,
The source of the art my soul had spun.
Now every verse feels brittle and thin,
A hollow echo of what might have been.

Still, I thank him for the time he gave,
For waking the parts I couldn’t save.
Though the flame may fade, the embers remain,
A whisper of love, a trace of pain.