One holds the weight in both hands,
careful not to spill a drop,
while another only sips—
a taste,
never thirsty enough to stay.

One aches down in the marrow,
the other skims the surface of skin.
One reads the sky for constellations,
the other glances once,
already turning back to the noise.

There is a spark,
a fire tended faithfully,
but only one feeds it,
only one risks the burn,
while the other warms themselves
and walks away unscathed.

Still, the flame is kept alive,
because some souls know
what it means to carry heat—
even for those
who never feel its weight.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.