Embers in my Eyes

I do not glitter anymore I smoulder. Not in silver, but in a fevered undertow. There is no borrowed light in me now, no easy shine to claim, only a hush of heat behind my eyes, softly whispering your name.

Where there was once a careless sparkle, there are embers, low and deep, red as a vow I could not keep, bright as a wound that I chose to seep.

Tell me, is this sorrow I am wearing, or a ritual I began? Have I been burned by love’s undoing, or did I walk into the fire by plan?

For sometimes it does not feel like pain, it feels like longing’s slow desire, a secret wish to be unmade, to rise or get destroyed in the pyre I made.