🎨 “Custodians of the Flame”
We practice a quiet alchemy, turning breath into embers and embers into something bright enough to paint shadows on the walls.
Some nights, you are the storm… all thunder-lined certainty, hands shaping the air as if the sky itself obeys you. And I, the patient shoreline, curving softly to your rhythm, letting your waves remind me how gladly I yield.
But the seasons are generous with us. On other nights, I’m the one who carries the weather. I call the winds, draw constellations across your spine, and the world tilts— just enough that you answer to the gravity in my voice.
We trade crowns like favorite hats, leave fingerprints in the same wet clay, take turns being the sculptor and the soft, malleable thing that wants to belong to its maker.
There is a language we speak that has no dictionary… only sparks, switches, glances, the quiet thrum under the skin that says yours even before the word is formed.
And sometimes, when the moon is the only witness, one of us takes the reins with a smile too knowing, a touch too intentional, guiding the other as if the moment were crafted precisely— deliberately— for our hands alone.
We don’t need to say who leads. The flame knows. It shifts, bends, bows, rises, obedient to whichever of us tends it that night. We are custodians of the same fire: equal, alternating, entwined… master and muse, wild echo and quiet command, two halves of a single spark taking turns holding the match.
- Ang Oz
