I've spent most of my life
being fascinated by the flame,
trying to figure out how close I can get
without burning myself.

At the times where I've handled it closely,
it has left me charred—
but when I've tried casting it away altogether,
life is grey, cold, and lifeless.

So I keep returning
to the edge of the flame—
fingers trembling—
hoping this time,
it'll warm me
without consuming me.

Sometimes, the flame finds its way back—
not sparked, not summoned—
reminding me
it was never something I lit,
only something I carry.

I find myself haunted by the flicker—
drawn not by recklessness,
but by the unbearable quiet
of a world without warmth.