Measured Fire
I fear the echo.
That hollow return
where something I meant
lands somewhere
and just… doesn’t come back.
I learned people
in a house full of noise,
where doors didn’t stay closed
and voices didn’t have to knock.
If I turned around,
someone was there.
Not wondering.
Not weighing me.
Just there.
So now—
this world of half-open doors
and “hit me when you can” connections
feels like walking into rooms
where the lights pretend to stay on.
When I care,
it’s not casual.
It’s not
“we’ll see.”
It’s
pull up a chair,
stay a while,
I’ll remember how you take your silence.
But I’ve watched that kind of care
get mistaken for convenience.
Watched effort
become background noise.
Watched myself
turn into something people visit
instead of something they build with.
So I learned restraint.
Learned to read pauses
like weather patterns.
Learned that
sometimes a smile
is just something someone wears
until something better happens.
Now I measure everything.
Not because I want to—
but because I remember
what it feels like
to give freely
and be quietly replaced.
And still—
there are people
who make me forget
all of that math.
People I want to lean toward
without checking the distance first.
And that’s where it gets dangerous.
Because I don’t know
how to be halfway there.
So I stand in the doorway
of something that could matter,
trying to look like I’m just passing through
while holding the weight
of wanting to stay.
Not afraid of you.
Afraid of becoming
something you can lose
without noticing.
But even now—
even with all this caution
stitched into my hands—
there’s still something in me
that burns like it hasn’t learned a thing.
Still wants to say:
If you’re real…
I won’t hold back.
I just need to know
I’m not the only one lighting the fire.
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