a hearth gone cold

"Hearth Gone Cold"

The fire has collapsed inward,
a scatter of grey where once
flames spoke in restless tongues.

The stones still carry warmth—
not silence, but a weight
pressed into their surface.

I sit before the hearth,
hands open to absence,
palms cupped around nothing.

Even the smoke has lost
its path to the rafters.
What remains is not flame,

but the trace of heat,
a presence that lingers
long after the light is gone.











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