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Psalm of the Quiet Flame

I. Grief — Where the Words Wouldn’t Come

I buried your name beneath my breath—

a tomb of consonants never offered aloud.

They asked me why I wept when the wind turned.

I said nothing. Grief wears no uniform.

It fits in the lining of everything.

II. Kinship — How We Knew Each Other

You never reached for me and yet I was held.

In the soft certainty of shared glances,

we built what no scripture knew to sanctify.

I called you brother the way roots call soil

                       — not loud, but lifelong.

III. Memory — The Things That Stayed

Your coat still lives on the back of my door.

I pretend I don’t see it when rain comes. But I do.

I keep the smell of cedar and

the burn of your laugh in jars I open

only when the sky forgets how to be blue.

IV. Presence — What We Are, Still

I lit no candle.

You are the flame that doesn’t need one.

When I step out into morning,

I hear your voice in birds

who don’t ask permission to sing.

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This love— unwritten, unhidden— lives like breath: felt before it’s named, and faithful after.

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