Mecella | A Home For Poets

I woke up one morning,
my soul draped in leaden silence,
a darkness that clung like a second skin.
In the shadowed corners of my mind,
I saw an ember—a single spark,
buried beneath layers of numbness,
a fragile glimmer amid the wreckage.

This ember, so small,
held the ghost of warmth,
a memory of a fire long faded.
It was not a blaze,
just a flicker in the void,
a pulse that whispered softly,
“You are not alone.”

I held that ember close,
feeling its tender heat against my fingertips,
like a secret that refused to die.
It burned against the cold,
against the vast expanse of grey,
and though its light was faint,
it was mine, persistent.

Each day, I tended to it,
feeding it with the barest threads of hope,
with moments of quiet belief.
I wrapped it in gentle care,
draped it in the soft fabric of patience.
It was a delicate flame,
but it was a start,
a beginning I could cling to.

I watched as the ember grew,
a slow, deliberate dance
in the stillness of my heart.
It warmed the edges of my world,
a hint of light against the unending dark.
The shadows, once overwhelming,
began to recede,
fleeing from the steady glow.

It was not sudden, this change,
but a gradual thaw,
a slow easing of the chill.
Each flicker of the ember
was a promise,
a reminder that beneath the surface,
something was stirring,
something was alive.

The ember spoke in whispers,
its light painting faint trails
across the canvas of my days.
It told tales of what could be,
of warmth that might return,
of a fire that could rekindle.
It was a soft revolution,
a quiet reclaiming of myself.

I saw the ember’s glow
in the small victories,
in the moments when the darkness lifted,
if only for an instant.
It was in the first smile
that felt real,
in the laughter that came unbidden,
in the dawn that broke
through the endless night.

The ember began to ignite,
a spark transforming into a flame,
warming the cold corners of my soul.
It was a gradual blaze,
each flicker a testament
to the strength I had forgotten,
to the hope I had nearly lost.

In this fire, I found comfort,
a refuge from the storm.
It was a flame that spoke
of resilience,
of the power of even the smallest light
to chase away the dark.
The ember was no longer alone,
but a beacon,
guiding me toward the day.

The path was still shadowed,
but now, I walked in the warmth
of my own rekindled spirit.
The ember had become a fire,
a steady light against the gloom,
a promise that even the smallest spark
could grow into something
beautiful, enduring.

And so, I carried this flame,
its light a testament
to the journey from despair
to hope.
It burned brightly now,
a symbol of the strength found
in the smallest ember,
a light that grew
in the darkest hours.

Your breath meets mine,
and the air shimmers—
thick with the weight of what we can’t say,
heavy like rain that never falls.
There’s a charge in the room,
electric and sharp,
like lightning before it splits the sky.
We’re standing at the edge of something vast,
something wild, and I can feel it crackle,
the heat between us, burning bright,
a secret flame that flickers,
hungry, waiting to consume.

I trace the line of your jaw,
your skin warm,
smooth like the surface of still water
just before the storm comes in.
I feel the tremor in your pulse,
the quick stutter,
like a drumbeat I can’t quite catch.
We’re caught in this dance,
close but never close enough,
a game of touch and retreat,
push and pull,
each moment stretched thin,
a thread ready to snap.

You smile, and it’s fire—
a slow burn that curls at the edges.
I see the mischief in your eyes,
the dare, the unspoken yes.
I’m pulled into your orbit,
a moth drawn to a flame,
knowing the scorch, craving the singe.
Your hands linger, just shy of mine,
a breath away,
fingers twitching with the promise
of more, of everything.
We’re teetering on a tightrope,
a line of tension drawn tight,
fraying with every second.

We talk in circles,
words that mean nothing and everything,
every syllable a spark,
every laugh a flicker.
Your voice, low and rich,
wraps around me like smoke,
thick and sweet,
luring me deeper into this haze.
We are tangled, not just in limbs,
but in want, in need—
a craving that burns hotter
than any fire I’ve ever known.

The heat is alive, it’s a living thing,
it curls between us,
an invisible thread pulling tight.
There’s no escaping it,
no dousing this kind of flame.
It clings to our skin,
sinks into our bones,
a fever we can’t shake.
I can feel it under my ribs,
a constant hum,
a slow simmer just waiting to burst.

You lean in, and I catch my breath,
your lips close, not quite touching,
a whisper away from mine.
There’s irony in the space between us,
the smallest distance,
the grandest canyon.
We could cross it,
we could bridge it with a kiss,
with the press of lips and skin and want,
but we linger here,
in the heat, in the almost,
where everything feels sharper,
brighter, like the first spark of a match.

The room is thick with tension,
and I can’t tell if it’s you or me
or this unspoken pull,
this magnetism that defies all reason.
I feel the sweat gather at my temples,
the way the air feels heavy,
like it’s bearing down,
like it’s watching us,
waiting for one of us to break.
And maybe that’s the point,
maybe that’s the truth—
that the heat between us
isn’t meant to be doused,
isn’t meant to cool.

It’s meant to burn,
to keep us on the edge,
caught in the glow of what could be,
what might be,
if we just give in,
if we just let go.
The heat is relentless,
it sears, it scars,
but I wouldn’t trade it,
not for a second.
Because the heat between us,
this fever, this fire—
it’s the only thing that feels real,
the only thing that burns bright enough
to light the dark

You said it softly,
so softly that I almost missed it.
The lie slipped through your lips
like a thief in the night,
quiet, unassuming, but deadly sharp.
It settled between us,
a silent intruder,
changing the air we breathe,
poisoning the spaces
where truth used to live.

I watched your eyes,
how they flickered away,
how they darted like shadows
escaping the light.
Your smile was a mask,
a porcelain facade that cracked at the edges,
barely holding back the truth.
I wanted to reach out,
to touch the lie, to break it,
to make it real so I could fight it.
But it was already too deep,
rooted in the marrow of us.

The lie lived in the pauses,
in the breaks in your sentences,
in the hesitations that hung
like a noose around my neck.
It was a phantom, unseen but felt,
a dark cloud hovering
over every word we spoke,
every kiss that lost its warmth.
I tried to find us again,
in the spaces where we used to fit,
but all I found were fragments,
pieces that no longer made sense.

Your touch was different,
fingers cold, distant,
as if afraid of what we’d become.
I felt the lie in every unreturned glance,
in the way your laughter felt forced,
too brittle to be real.
The bed felt colder,
the sheets heavy with secrets,
your side a void I couldn’t fill.
You were there, but not really,
a ghost wearing your skin,
a stranger I thought I knew.

The irony, it stings—
that I still loved you,
even as you unraveled us,
thread by thread, lie by lie.
I clung to memories,
to moments that felt pure,
but they crumbled like old photographs,
fading, yellowed by time and deceit.
I searched for the truth in your eyes,
but all I found was distance,
a cold sea between us
that I couldn’t swim.

I replayed it over,
the moments that didn’t add up,
the nights you came home late,
the whispers that weren’t meant for me.
I saw the lie in every excuse,
in every half-hearted apology
that left my heart hollow.
I felt it wrap around my chest,
tightening with each breath,
squeezing until I could no longer pretend
that we were anything but broken.

You dressed the lie in kindness,
in sweet words and soft touches,
but I felt the sting beneath the surface,
a venom that seeped slowly,
unseen, but deadly.
I wondered if you knew—
if you felt the weight of it too,
or if the lie had become
a part of you,
a comfortable cloak you wore without shame.

I screamed in silence,
a voice unheard, a heart unheard.
I waited for you to see me,
to see the hurt behind my eyes,
but you looked away,
lost in a world I couldn’t reach.
The lie kept us apart,
a wall I couldn’t tear down,
a prison built from every untruth.

Now, I’m left with the pieces,
the jagged remnants of what we were.
The lie sits heavy,
a weight I carry,
a scar that won’t fade.
It broke me in ways I didn’t know I could break,
left me gasping in the dark,
reaching for something that was never there.
I gather the shards,
knowing some wounds never heal,
and some lies never die.
But I’ll rise from this,
scarred but stronger,
learning to live with the truth
that the lie that broke me
taught me to never bend to false love again.

I remember the touch,
the heat of skin on skin,
a fever that rose with every caress.
We tangled in the sheets,
bodies writhing in a symphony of desire,
a dance of shadows
in the dim light of lust.

The sins of the flesh,
they were a tempest
that burned away the calm,
a relentless ache
that found its way through every kiss.
Our hands explored,
mapping the contours of temptation,
where pleasure and guilt
wrestled in the dark.

I felt the heat of your breath,
each exhalation a promise
that we would devour each other,
losing ourselves
in the primal pleasure of our needs.
Your skin was a canvas
for the strokes of sin,
each touch a mark
left by the gods of indulgence.

In the shadows of our passion,
we danced a dance of desire,
where every whisper was an invocation,
every sigh a sacrilege.
The flesh, it craved
the forbidden fruit,
the taste of what we knew
we should not want.

We were drunk on the nectar
of our own lust,
each moan a prayer
to the gods of fleeting satisfaction.
The heat between us
was an inferno,
scorching the earth beneath us,
leaving nothing but ashes
and the echoes of our sins.

Each touch was a betrayal,
a promise broken
in the heat of our own making.
We reveled in the carnal,
our bodies speaking a language
of sin and redemption,
where every touch
was a question of morality
answered with the breathless cry
of our own indulgence.

In the throes of our passion,
we forgot the world outside,
lost in a frenzy
that left us gasping,
entwined in the sin of our desires.
Our bodies were temples
to the gods of the flesh,
sacrificed on the altar
of our insatiable need.

But as the fire cooled
and we lay amidst the remnants,
the sins of the flesh
were a stark reality,
a reminder of the lines
we had crossed,
the promises we had shattered
in the pursuit of our own pleasure.

The heat that once consumed us
now lay cold,
a reminder of the cost
of our indulgence.
We were left with the ashes
of our sins,
a landscape marked
by the ghosts of our passion,
and the shadows of what we had done.

In the quiet aftermath,
the sins of the flesh
were a burden
too heavy to bear.
Each touch was a memory
of a heat that had burned too bright,
a flame that had consumed
the sanctity of our souls.

And as we faced the dawn,
our bodies weary,
the sins of the flesh
were a reminder of our fallibility,
a testament to the heat
that had once burned between us,
and the price we paid
for the indulgence
of our own desires.