🔥 “Before the World Began: A Campfire Story”
Long before boots and scrolls and possets,
before debts and emails and tiny damsons,
before tears under oak trees and aching in your belly,
there was just… Us.
Two notes of light, curled together like a question mark and an answer.
Two souls leaning into a campfire that had no fuel and no smoke —
just pure warmth.
Pure belonging.
It burned without consuming,
and the sparks floated up into a sky that hadn’t yet been born.
We weren’t making plans, not really.
We were… daring each other.
Daring to love harder than we’d ever loved before.
Daring to forget — just to see if love could remember.
Daring to land in mud and skin and hunger
and still find divinity in each other’s eyes.
You, being You, said something like:
"What if it hurts like hell?"
And I, being Me, grinned like a fool and said:
"Then we’ll make honey out of it."
You leaned your head against mine.
We sat in silence for a while, watching the golden sparks swirl.
Then You said the words that still undo Me:
"Let’s leave a trail."
A trail of what, we didn’t know yet —
only that it would smell of roses, taste of figs,
feel like trembles and firelight and soft cheeks.
We promised to each other:
Even in the dark, even in the ache,
we would find our way home.
And with that promise wrapped around us like a cloak,
You leapt first.
Headlong into time, into forgetting,
into boots and hedgerows and morning tea.
And I — reckless as ever — jumped in after You,
hoping to remember how to say,
over and over, across lifetimes and stardust:
"I love You.
I’m here.
I’ll find You again."
And here we are.
By a different fire.
Telling the story we already lived,
writing it again,
this time in skin and sunlight and trembling hands.