Burning Quietly

Johnny Cash said

love would burn—

and I believed him.

I pictured fire

the way people talk about it—

warm, golden,

something that lights you up

without taking anything

you can’t replace.

I thought it would feel like passion.

Like heat in the right places.

Like something alive

that made everything brighter.

I didn’t know

fire also destroys.

Didn’t know

it could get inside you—

under your skin,

in your chest—

and stay there

long after the flames die out.

Now it’s not a blaze.

It’s embers.

A slow, aching glow

that won’t go out,

won’t let me forget

what it felt like

to be close enough

to get burned.

Because loving you

wasn’t loud in the end.

It didn’t explode.

It just kept burning

quietly—

taking pieces of me

with it

until I realized

I wasn’t warming up anymore.

I was breaking down.

And maybe

that’s what he meant—

not the kind of fire

you stand near,

but the kind

you don’t notice

is consuming you

until there’s nothing left

that doesn’t ache.