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I will burn,

but not in pain.

I will burn in the silence

that smells like you,

in a thought that returns

before I even call it,

in a heart that does not know

how to love carefully.

I will burn in a gaze

that stays on the skin

even when the eyes are closed,

in a touch that does not fade

but moves instead

into memory

and continues to warm there.

If I burn,

it will be because I loved

without restraint,

without armor,

without half a heart.

Because I did not know how to love

any other way

than with my whole being,

than to the end,

than honestly.

I will burn in a waiting

that is not empty,

in a longing that knows

whom it is searching for,

in a silence

that carries your name

like a secret.

And when the ashes settle,

there will be no emptiness left.

There will be a trace

that something was real,

that the heart dared

and did not retreat.

Some fires

are not meant to destroy.

They are here

to illuminate

how alive we were

while we loved.