I waged a silent war within myself,
where every thought was a blade
and every memory struck like iron on stone.
In that chaos something strange took root—
a fragile calm I had never known.
It was love,
or at least the shadow of it,
arriving late to a heart that had long forgotten how to burn.
For years I walked beside it without knowing its name.
It brushed against my soul like winter wind,
present, but never warm enough to wake me.
And then there was her.
She sat where love itself is crowned—
upon that lonely throne
where every heartbeat becomes a vow
and every glance feels like destiny.
When I finally understood what I felt,
when the truth clawed its way out of my chest,
I placed my love before her.
Bare.
Unhidden.
Terribly late.
But love spoken too late
is like fire struck in falling snow.
My flames were too cold.
I cursed the weakness in my chest,
the frost that lived where passion should have roared.
So I lifted my eyes to the sky
and begged the sun itself for mercy.
“Give me your fire,” I pleaded.
“Burn through my ribs and turn this frozen heart to ash.
Let me feel even a fraction of your fury
so I may stand before her worthy.”
I would have torn light from the heavens
if it meant she might feel warmth in my presence.
I would have carried burning stars in my hands
just to prove that I could blaze for her.
But when I stood before her again
the truth did not shout.
It whispered.
Because love does not measure promises—
it feels the heat that lives behind them.
And when she looked at me
there was kindness in her eyes…
but no need for my fire.
Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger, 