firestarter.

a decadent affair, not quite love,  but something dressed in silk and shadows, whispering promises it never meant to keep.

we called it passion when it was hunger, called it fate when it was choice, called it just us when it when we were already unravelling.

you read me slowly, like a book that was meant to be misread, every pause exploited, every silence turned against me.

and I let you.

because there was something sacred in the ruin of it, the ruins of who we were. something holy in the way we blurred the lines between devotion and destruction.

we didn’t fall in love, we ignited.

at first, it was warmth, a flickering, soft, forgiving glow. a secret we could keep.

but fire is never satisfied with being small.

it fed on glances, on late-night confessions, on every “stay” that should have been a “leave, go.”

I mistook the ache for meaning, mistook the chaos for something worth saving.

by the time we noticed the smoke, it was already too late.

we burned, not beautifully, but wildly, consuming everything we were, everything we could have been.

and in the end, there was nothing left but ash and the question we never dared to answer:

was it love or were we always meant to burn?