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The night does not merely fall—

it claims.

It wraps its velvet weight around the ribs

and presses until the breath forgets

how to rise without permission.

You sit inside the hush,

not empty, yet emptied,

surrounded by the living pulse of others

and still so far from any hand

that could reach the place where warmth once lived.

The stars keep their cold counsel.

You ask them why the fire still burns

when every path is sealed,

why the strength remains

yet will not answer when called.

And the answer you give yourself

is soft, practiced, almost kind—

a lie so well-worn it feels like truth.

Inside, the flame refuses to die.

It licks at the walls of the chest,

hungry, bright, and useless,

finding no fuel that can be spent,

no wound it is allowed to cauterize.

It only keeps you conscious

of how deeply the cold has settled

into the marrow.

So you wait in the dark that knows your name,

carrying a heat that will not warm you

and a courage that will not move.

And the night, indifferent and endless,

simply continues

to hold you.