Stove (Jordan)

The darkness is a void.
It keeps wanting to take more.
It settles on your shoulders,
an unspoken obligation,
as we keep moving.
Somewhere in it,
we find each other.
Not saved.
Not finished.
Just close enough
to feel their presence.

The campfire is small.
It asks us to sit nearer
than comfort allows,
to speak honestly,
to stay long enough
that the flame learns our names.

Stories are fed into it.
Laughter breaks.
Silence settles.
For a while,
the void loosens
because something shared
exists between us.

People leave.
They always do.
What stays
is what we carry.
A torch taken from the fire,
heavy with lives,
with stories only you know how to hold.

It burns if you grip it too tightly.
It lights only a few steps ahead.
Still, we walk.
Not toward answers.
Toward the chance
that somewhere ahead,
the light we're carrying
will be enough
for someone to look up,
recognize the weight we bring,
and make room beside the fire
once more.