Ember at Rest

She rests the way a seasoned flame does—

not extinguished, only contained,

gathered inward with a patience that feels earned.

 

There is no performance here, only truth.

Her beauty does not ask to be witnessed;

it simply exists, quietly luminous,

as if the world has finally learned how to hold her

without asking her to burn for it.

 

The curve of her form carries the memory of heat,

of chapters survived and rewritten.

This is not the fire that destroys—

this is the warmth that remains

after the blaze has taught the night how to breathe.

 

She is ease.

She is aftermath.

She is the ember that proves the fire was real.

Done