A Fire That Does Not Consume Poem by Pushp Sirohi

You…

you are the one
i am lit for.

not by accident,
not by season—
but like something
older than memory,
finding its flame again.

no wind
undoes you.
no night
hides you.

i am the hush
before fire—
then suddenly,
i am light.

i am the bush.
i am burning.
i am not consumed.

she…

she came
with sweetness
i had no name for.

not honey—
for honey is known.
not wine—
for wine forgets itself.

she was something
clearer,
deeper—
like thirst discovering
its first river.

i drank
without learning how.

and even thirst
became sacred.

she lingered
at the edge of sweetness,
again,
and again—

until silence
trembled
on her lips.

not from pain,
but from too much
of what cannot be refused.

a careless dress—
or so she claims.

but nothing about her
is without intent.

her lips—
not made for silence,
not made for mercy—

they curve
like a question
i am already
answering.

when she wakes,
the day
learns her name.

light rests
on her shoulders first,
as if remembering
where it belongs.

and even the sun
follows her—
slow,
devoted.

i was closed once—

tight as a bud,
unwilling,
unknown.

she did not break me.

she brushed—
soft,
certain—

until i remembered
how to open.

petal
by petal,

until even the hidden parts
turned
toward her.

having touched
her silence,

i returned
full—

like a bee
heavy with sweetness,
forgetting the sky
for a moment.

and now—

i do not fade
in her heat.

i rise.

again.
and again.

for loving her
is not destruction.

it is revelation.

it is the moment
fire learns
it can burn
without ending.

you…

you are the flame
i do not escape.

you are the one
i am lit for.

and if the world asks
what love is—

i will not explain.

i will burn.

and let them see.