Of Ashes That Still Burn

They said the bridge was burned to ash,
yet lingered where the embers flashed;
each found excuses, small and thin,
to step once more where they had been.

A glance became a borrowed flame,
a brush of hands, a half-lost name;
they dressed it up as passing chance,
but left the room with weighted stance.

The air between them bent and stayed,
a thread uncut, though frayed and frayed;
they spoke of futures, clean, apart,
yet carried echoes in the heart.

A laugh too long, a pause too near,
an old refrain they’d meant to clear;
the world looked on, untrained to see
the quiet seams of memory.

They swore that time would cure the ache,
yet chose the paths they knew would break;
for in the hush of almost-gone,
they felt the pull they named “move on.”

And still, when parting turns to night,
a lantern flickers out of sight;
one leaves it burning, soft, unseen,
for what was lost, for what has been.

A hunger kept, though never fed,
a warmth half-killed but never dead;
in every word they fail to say,
the old desire threads its way.

And so they drift, both close and far,
like ships that trace the same old star;
no vow to bind, no plan to keep,
yet tethered still in secret deep.