Singe

Singe

A flicker kisses the frayed hem,
A breath of flame that dares not blaze—
Just enough to singe the linen’s seam,
Leaving amber traces in a haze.

It is the whisper of a candle’s sigh,
The gingered edge where night meets day,
A tender scar that won’t deny
The heat that brushed, yet chose to stay.

So let us mark each careful touch,
Where fire flirts and then withdraws—
A quiet singe, subdued, but such
A reminder: even sparks can pause.