Scars of the Unseen Fire, I almost lost my best friend.

Scars of the Unseen Fire, I almost lost my best friend.

The mental images of you—
still smolder in the back‑room of my mind,
a phantom blaze that never fully cools.

They cling, third‑degree burns,
searing the hem of my thoughts,
leaving flesh‑thin traces of ash and heat.
Every glance, every laugh, every secret shared,
is a scar etched deep enough to feel the pulse beneath.

I remember the night the world reached out,
its cold fingers poised to snatch you from my horizon—
a sudden gust that could have torn the rope
that held us together, a silence that could have swallowed your name.

I hear the crackle of that near‑loss,
the hiss of a wind that threatened to carry you
into a place where I could not follow,
where my voice would be a whisper lost in a canyon.

And so the memory burns, relentless,
not to punish but to remind—
that love is a flame that can scorch,
yet also keep the darkness at bay.

I walk through the charred fields of our past,
picking up the ember‑light of what remains:
the way your smile would ignite my darkest hour,
the way your breath steadied my trembling heart.

If the fire ever dims, let it be known:
the scars it leaves are proof you were almost taken,
and that I, though burned, still bear the marks—
testimony that some bonds, even when threatened,
refuse to be extinguished.

So I carry the heat, the ache, the glow,
and let the third‑degree memory be my compass,
pointing me back to the place where we stand,
still close enough to feel each other's flame.