Love is a flame,
a memory of orange
flickering behind the ribs,
a match I didn’t know I struck
just by saying his name.

Not a wildfire.
It’s quieter than that.
A pilot light
that keeps burning
even when no one’s home.

Sometimes I hate it for that.
Its persistence.
Its patience.
It’s refusal to let me go cold.

Because I tried.
To blow it out.
To bury it beneath logic
and long explanations
and “maybe he didn’t mean to.”

But there it is,
in the way I still pause
at doorways,
hoping someone
will see me hesitate
and stay.