I will not lie on my deathbed
haunted by the ghosts
of dreams I left unborn,
of words swallowed
like ash and regret.

The voice in my head
a relentless whisper,
an ember refusing to fade:
Go forward,
Go further,
Or burn alive in the silence.

They call my sky too wide,
my dreams reckless,
as if their fears could cage
my endless horizon.

I burn hot like fire
a fury ignited
by the smallness
of their projections,
the cowardice
of chosen comforts,
a daily surrender
to empty routines.

I rage against shrinking,
against the numbness
of a life untested.
Let them choose ease;
I will chase obsession,
run wild into uncertainty,
and carry my dreams
like flames
into the dark.

Umbră a Nopții, te arată,
Ca un vis ce-i rupt din Rai,
Ce-n lumină ești scăldată,
Mă chemai cu dulce grai.

Mă-mbăt de-a ta ființă vie,
De râsul tău cu gust amar,
Ești dorul ce nu vrea să fie,
Și visul stins ce-aprinde jar.

Pășeai încet, cu glezna fină,
Cu trupul tău sculptat în foc,
Privirea ta, o vină plină
Ce arde gândul, pas cu loc.

Și-n urma ta, tăcerea plânge,
Sub pași de vis, sub stinsul dor,
Se frânge clipa, gându-nvinge,
Rămân doar umbre care mor.

Rămâi, icoană neuitată,
Din nopți cu lună și parfum,
O flacără nemângâiată,
Ce arde-n mine negru scrum.

fire 4.22.25 (10:37 am)
you were always fearless enough to get burned
brave enough to walk through the fire

but now i feel you left me
because i could not burn the way you did
didn’t light up like a star

you must have been born on the moon
because you glowed under the night sky

i remember you walking away
you said
i love you
did you?
did you mean it,
but not enough?
or was it all a lie?

now the cold settles around my bones
and i regret not following you
into the fire

🔥 Que te llama

No es tu voz —
es la forma en que tu silencio me toca.
No son tus manos —
es el espacio entre ellas,
esperando mi piel.

Me llamas
sin palabras,
como un incendio llama al oxígeno,
como el abismo llama al salto.

Hay algo en ti
que no pide.
Solo toma.

Una mirada,
y ya no tengo camino de regreso.
Un susurro,
y todo mi cuerpo obedece.

No eres mujer.
Eres deseo con nombre.
Eres noche que se arrastra por mi espalda
hasta que gimo sin tocarme.

Que te llama…
no es pregunta.
Es orden.
Y yo la cumplo,
porque no hay fe más pura
que arder por quien arde contigo.

a glimmer to a glow
then only embers
to remind us
of a fire that once
raged

a thousand extras
for a cast of one
and I among them

world shrunk to four walls
an armchair and tv set
have you seen mum
seven years gone
waiting

We're running on a borrowed memory
of fading energy
that's losing its fire and desire to burn.
Strike a match next to
my heart
to
ignite the wick of serendipitous
romance
as we catch flame together
incinerating
stored pain and trauma
until we combust and turn to ash
in a dusty pile on the earth
swirled
together
for eternity.

i just lit up a matchstick,
like a rock striking the bed of still water,
creating ripples seemingly impossible to control.
the matchstick ignited the moment it made contact
with the red phosphorus on the box's side.
it burnt so bright, so sharp—
i watched flickers of it, the tiny fire—a world of its own.
the flame started blue at the centre,
turned white, orange, red, and a bright yellow.
was this the sunshine's glow?
or the fire that grew from it?

i watched the match start to shrivel up,
the tip that burnt the brightest went down the fastest.
it dropped on my skin,
left a tiny scar in its midst.
and then the stick caught fire—
slowly, gradually, it ate itself up.
the world swallowed itself whole—
the world that the matchstick had created on its own.

such innocence. i wonder if it had life—
oh, but it did have life.
born with it—well, made the way it is supposed to be:
burn, leave a light, which lasts longer.
the originator of the fire, further.
and it dies because of its own existence.
the box that it comes within
carries what brings it to its ending.

and all those, multiple—oh so many,
that come within a box like a well-settled family,
leave one by one, burning themselves apart.
i wonder if the ones remaining behind know their part?

isn't that the irony of human beings as well?
our own worlds, created by us alone—
swallowing us whole,
and often the ones to bring us to ruin: our own.

sometimes i wonder
if i were to kiss the flame,
pull it in my arms, hug it, and set myself on fire—
would our worlds collide?
would i break the loop of life?
would i find the warmth i require,
or would i too turn to ash,
like the matchstick as my friend?

what would it say—
the flame, as it embraces me in return?
would it be like the caress of a mother’s hand,
or the sizzling burn of my father’s?
would this comfort be my destruction?

i wonder if the matchstick ever regretted its purpose.