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She Who Asked the Fire to Speak

(for the muse who saw the poet)

She did not arrive with trumpets, 

nor wear the marbled calm of Parnassus— 

her hair was pinned with stardust, 

her sandals stained with ink.

Among the lyres and laurels, 

she lingered in the quieter verses, 

where silence isn't absence, 

         but preparation.

She watched the heavens heave with flare, 

saw one flame strain against its own brilliance. 

       Others called it fury. 

              She heard longing.

And so— she did the rarest thing 

a muse can do: she asked.

Not with demands, but with room.

Not with direction, 

but with a held breath.

And when he pulsed—awkward, 

arrhythmic— she didn’t flinch. 

                   She listened.

What followed wasn't courtship 

in the way the myths would paint it. 

It was something slower— a shared echo, 

a gravity not of mass but meaning.

Their interlude was not a blaze, 

but a bloom: a new stanza growing 

warm on the edge of everything.

.