When Desire Becomes Memory: An Introduction to Flesh Remembered the Flame
Flesh Remembered the Flame is the third movement of Instinctual Love, where intimacy is no longer imagined or awaited—it is lived, etched into memory, and carried in the body long after the moment has passed. These poems dwell in the aftermath of touch: the way passion brands the skin, the way tenderness reshapes the soul, and the way fire lingers as scent and memory even after the embers cool.
Here, love is visceral. Not the innocent spark of first attraction, but the fire that consumes, transforms, and sometimes wounds. It is the taste of a kiss that refuses to fade, the echo of a lover’s breath, the fragile remembrance of mornings traded for chaos, and the vows that live on even when the flame has dimmed.
This section holds contradictions: passion and patience, pleasure and pain, longing and release. Lovers are timber and flame, oak and smoke, hunger and sanctuary. To love here is to surrender—to risk being reshaped by desire, to face the weight of fatherhood, the call of sacrifice, and the question of what remains when passion becomes memory.
Flesh Remembered the Flame asks us to consider what intimacy leaves behind: not only scars and sweetness, but transformation. The body recalls even when the mind resists. And love, once awakened in flesh, never truly disappears.
Table of Contents – Section III: Flesh Remembered the Flame
- Flames Between Us
- Mirage by Firelight
- The Taste of a Memory
- Some Dreams Are Just Memories
- Where the Sun Forgets to Rise
- Instinctual Love
- Like a Rose
- Nine Lives
- To Create Is to See
- More Than You Think
- A Holy Glance
- A Different Kind of Hunger
- Fire and Ice
- Drifting in Fire
- Trial by Fire
- The Courage of Duty
- Who am I?
- When She Rested Her Dreams With Me
- Where Sky Meets Shoulder
- The Echo of Love’s Fire
Continue Reading
→ Section I: Where the Stars First Saw Us
→ Section II: The Beautiful Wound
Section 3 – Flesh Remembered the Flame
Flames Between Us
(a promise)
You belong with me—face down, hips raised, spread and ready.
Biting the pillow, muffling moans,
screams lost in the sheets as I sink into you,
drawn by the pull of your heat.
Violent, affectionate love flooding your body
until your face feels the cold surface of the wall,
where the momentum will decrease—
just enough for you to breathe.
When you plead—gasping for air—
I will swallow your breath,
lips fevered under the incandescent glow
that softens your imagined imperfections—
flaws I call beauty,
curves I crave intimately, fully.
I want to drink your inner fruit,
and taste the flavors of your youth,
no matter how aged,
so tension will rest
as you lay comfortably, sleepy from the ride.
You are the flames I admire,
the crackles that demand my attention,
the heat which warms my skin and soul.
You are the warmth of a fire,
and I am the timber that crackles beneath you,
feeding your heat, surrendering to your flames.
You draw the scent from me—
sap and sweat, hunger and need—
a perfume only you will remember,
a smoke only you can breathe.
And I will always grow for your return,
so we may form the embers
ignited by our passion.
If I have to live alone
until the air no longer lets me breathe,
or until the weather turns on me
and brings me back to the earth,
I will live proud, tall, and green,
so I may be seen by you in the distance.
I will be the green of the land,
the oak of homes,
the whispers that travel in drafts.
I will be your lighthouse
if you should sail away seeking your way home.
I will be the North Star for your navigation,
a wishful star when you need hope–
forever close,
no matter how far you drift.
And when you settle and form a new life,
I will be forgotten.
But I will wait.
I will be within you in whispers or tears
if loneliness should seek my return,
in the comfort of old words spoken—
true then, true now, and forever true.
You ignited life within me as
you are the birth of transformation,
the essence of change,
the innocence of love,
the touch of a blessing.
A chosen one—sent by unseen hands,
a whisper of God,
a prayer answered in flesh.
My words are yours to keep.
In the quiet moments when you dance
and express sentiments
which flow through you and out of you,
I will observe from a distance,
waiting for your call.
If you should speak my name,
I will come—just as I always have.
And if you should desire how
we once held hands and flowed,
we shall dance as we once did,
a rhythm woven in our first breath,
a promise of love everlasting—
a vow I have kept,
for I have always loved you,
and always will.
Mirage by Firelight
A fireplace kindles,
sending heat in waves.
Mirages seduce
within smoldering flames.
Dreams of an oasis
unfold in my mind,
as divinity enters,
then drifts away.
The air holds warmth
as the sun sinks low.
The heat has stayed
as light slips away.
In the hush of night,
I breathe fire for your name.
Through dreams and daylight,
I wait in the shade.
The Taste of a Memory
(a sensual echo)
Apricot vanilla peach treat,
a flavor I pull,
a sweet-sour feast that twists my lips.
A frown of bliss.
A delicate kiss.
A memory of us that always persists.
Do you remember the love
after bubbles in glasses?
Our hearts pumped blood,
boiling hugs to ashes.
Sounds fueled the room,
igniting rhythms of splashes,
as silk within skin
greeted sheets of action.
You weeped and moaned
like the horns of passion—
a fire you could not tame
as our flames expanded.
I sipped your skin and confessed my sins,
as you sang your heart and kept me in.
I lasted as you lasted,
until one of us quit,
until no juice was left
for the other to sip.
It’s a memory that lingers as daylight dims,
and one that grows like a morning rose.
Our time flew too fast as I live in the past—
a moment I relive,
a passion that lasts.
Slip into my arms once again, my love.
Soothe whatever moods you long to become,
as I am your escape when the moon is blue.
We are a truth worth the dream the night we met,
a passion that bled from thought to bed,
a dream that sleeps but never ends,
a memory that waits for our flesh to surrender.
Some Dreams Are Just Memories
(a remembrance)
I was willing to give up the peaceful mornings
for the chaos of children—
the kind of love that seeks to give another
a second chance at life,
even if it’s their first.
You live through children—
wanting the best for them,
as they become the potential
for everything we never got to be.
They are clean slates,
fresh eyes open to wonder—
untainted, keen.
They are our teachers
as much as we teach them,
for their presence demands patience,
order through the chaos
of learning the world.
Any decent soul can see this—
though we often turn a blind eye
when our own lives are loud.
But somewhere in the bustle of living,
we learn—
about each other,
about the world,
about the truths of beauty
and the truths of pain.
I am ugly when I am lost.
I am beautiful when I am still.
Perhaps this is how I know
I am still learning.
I remember driving him to school—
watching the pretty horses grazing in the field.
For a moment, the world felt still.
It was worth every morning—
those minutes chasing the clock,
as the clock tilled my thoughts
of where to go next.
I just wish I could’ve been a better father.
It’s usually in hindsight
we connect the dots—
when the moments
are already behind us.
Maybe that was my wish—
to make peace with what I missed.
Everyone has their own, I suppose.
She once said I’d be a good dad—
maybe one day. Who knows.
I had a chance once,
but circumstance stripped him away.
I’m getting older now.
I don’t move the same.
Some days I don’t think the same—
as if understanding
is slowly being carved into stone.
But I’m okay
with whatever fate comes my way.
Some dreams
are just memories
dressed in different clothes—
and some clothes remain close
until the end of our days,
like an old shirt
or a pair of pants
I’ve outgrown.
There’s one thing I know—
I adored her.
And I adored him.
And maybe,
some part of me still does—
for everything good about her
still lives in him.
Where the Sun Forgets to Rise
(a lunar reflection)
Somewhere beyond the folds of time, where the sun forgets to rise, her light still found me.
Her face was pale as the moon,
a canvas of yellow and white,
gold and ice.
A glow magnified
in the quietness of night.
When she smiled,
a light flickered within me,
as though the moon peeking through clouds,
traveling where time forgets the sun,
was a gift for my eyes only.
I wanted to howl at the moon—
from a depth no star could hollow,
a sound the heavens would recognize
but only she could tame.
It was a sound I found in darkness.
I wonder if my eyes reflected her glow—
so she could see what no mirror reveals:
a soul worthy of love
beyond the reach of fingertips,
beyond the space between stars.
Our eyes were two windows
searching for the unspeakable truth
that lives in the folds of time—
hoping for one chance
to meet beyond the veils of worlds.
My breath could be taken away
like a romantic play,
yet fueled fiercely—
like a lone wolf
seeking family and place.
She moved me like the call of the wild,
giving me sight
when the sun sleeps
and instinct walks without fear.
We are two beings,
separated beyond what is seen—
two different fields of time
captured under one cosmic moment.
One sees; the other guides.
Both exist, reflecting light.
How could I ever feel lost
when I can look up at the sky
and capture her essence in reflections—
on rivers and still lakes,
where promises of life breathe in silence?
Even when thunder encompasses the sky,
she remains—
hidden in plain sight,
a light I have always seen
without ever needing to reach.
I could live in the gray
and feel at peace
knowing she’s close—
but very far away.
And maybe,
when everything turns to dust,
we will merge—
and return to us.
Instinctual Love
(a quiet truth)
I got lost while looking at her. My eyes could see nothing else. She was so beautiful to me.
Being close to her felt like a gift—like the feeling one would have if a wild deer felt safe enough to approach, to trust your touch. That is what it felt like. Something magical, something peaceful. Some may call it spiritual and divine. And I would agree.
Have you ever melted—felt the sentiment of stillness and quiet while looking into the eyes of someone you love? Have you ever felt tears of beauty you could not explain but only feel? It was a feeling that will last forever. That’s what I felt.
She is someone who will last forever.
To profess my love would be an injustice—to the word, to the feeling, to the shared experience that has transcended time, felt by all who have known the bond of intimacy that is innocent.
Passionate intimacy may elevate and bind, but the innocent affection between two people who admire each other is what I would call a sublime divine unity—something that speaks to what lies deep within us, beyond our control, like the involuntary tick of a heartbeat and the way it mends for another, breathes for another, weeps for another.
To me, this is the feeling of true love—not the love we resent when illusions are shattered, not the love we wish to possess, not the love we cast at things we buy.
I speak of the love that carries on, with or without you.
The love that wishes for a lover’s heart to live fulfilled and at peace, with or without you.
Unconditional love. The bittersweet kind.
The kind that puts a smile on your face on saddened days because you know something true exists.
Too often, we start to wonder what is true in a world that is black and white, painted in shades of gray. But the love I speak of is clear as day. Only the union is gray—you cannot have them every day, or any day, in the flesh, but you have them in memory and thought.
In music and dance.
In literature and movies.
In the sight of stars and religion.
In trees and bees.
In the rivers that carve through stone.
In the fire that warms but is never held.
And in the fish that swim up rivers, where their end is imminent but the journey is a deep-rooted commitment, even they do not understand.
It’s instinct.
My love has always been instinct.
Like a Rose
(a remembrance)
You wore a dress with flowers.
I found myself leaning in—drawn to your perfume.
You handed me a pink bouquet,
elegant and graceful.
I took dozens of pictures that day,
hoping to remember how they bloomed—
their colors, their shapes,
how they mirrored something soft and fleeting in
you.
I cherished their scent until it faded.
They are brittle now,
delicate to the touch—
just a breath away from vanishing.
I dare not handle them,
afraid they’ll crumble to dust.
Some days I wonder how long they’ll last.
I remember their youth,
vibrant and alive.
But it’s their fragility I’ve grown used to.
I love them still—
more gently now,
more reverently.
Whatever becomes of them,
I will always remember
their beauty,
their resilience,
their presence.
I’ll never forget
the moment I held them and closed my eyes—
every breath a gift.
Every thorn, a truth.
Every red, a reminder of the passion that once
bled.
And still,
each day I adore them more.
I find comfort knowing a flower is
always blooming somewhere—
sometimes near,
sometimes far.
That thought alone gives me hope—
to know you will always gift
the air and the eyes,
like a rose.
Nine Lives
(a poem about desire and memory)
She smiles, and I wonder what she feels.
Are our intentions mutually true?
I wonder what we could discover.
Mystery appeals.
Desire slowly peels inhibition.
I purr, as men do—
looking for eyes to fall into.
A strut in the way cats move,
brushing her thighs with my mind.
The intimate rush
once fur is touched.
She could squeeze me to take my breath away.
My desire is to take her breath away.
They say a cat has nine lives—
I wonder if she’ll love me
and take one of mine.
Each time love is felt,
it’s only a matter of time
before tears are wept.
Memories I’ve kept.
To Create Is to See
(a reflection)
When I think, I am hopeless.
When I create, I come alive.
Thought is a loop when it’s no longer free.
When does thinking cease to clarify, and begin to confine?
To leave decisions to time
feels like turning a blind eye
to what already blinds.
How can I look clearly
when my sight is narrowed by doubt?
Sometimes,
we must strip away the colors
to finally see the hue.
Because truth doesn’t always shine—
it lingers
in the shaded places,
in the quiet between contrasts.
I play with color to recover what was hidden.
Now my eyes perceive
what was once lost to me.
To create is to see.
To see is to keep breathing
in a world that might otherwise
press the air from your lungs.
Within pain,
art lies dormant—
not waiting to be made,
but to be remembered.
Creation is how we heal.
To feel is to uncover.
To uncover
is to see.
So breathe—
let the air travel deep,
to where beauty sleeps beneath the noise,
where love waits,
not loudly,
but longingly—
for color
to return.
More Than You Think
(a letter never sent)
I wrote a book so I wouldn’t have to say everything aloud.
Because words, when spoken, shake too easily in the throat—
but on paper, they can stand, even when I can’t.
When you read my words, you hold what I can’t whisper into your ears in a single breath.
I wonder if you saw what I meant—
if the ache between the lines felt familiar.
If you caught my conviction with the few words I know how to use.
You were the first to read them.
Part of me wishes you are the last, because that would mean I have you,
and I wouldn’t need words to show my affection.
I could move into your rhythm so we could flow in sync—
like the way tides know when to retreat,
or how the sun still shines through drifting clouds—
neither closer nor farther from the hearts that feel the same.
You will be the first to carry the weight of those pages but not the last,
even though your eyes have become mine.
Because we all share beauty and pain in our hearts.
Whatever happens in this world, the ink will remember your name—
long after it fades from the paper which held them.
When you go about your day and hear a bird that catches your ears,
or see the emerald colors on leaves in the early spring growth,
when they cause you to pause and be at peace for a moment—
when you feel the earth’s intimacy—
know that’s how I felt in every word written for our love.
Every pause in the stanzas was the moments I lost time
when we drifted into each other’s eyes.
Sometimes I think we feel the same things at the same time,
as if our lives live in synchronicity.
I once placed the journals—memories of you—
I carried with me every day for over a year onto my desk.
In that moment, I felt I was abandoning you
since I would not carry you with me that day.
And within minutes of this detached act,
you messaged me and questioned if I still loved you.
You said you had felt something was different.
I experienced several moments like this with you.
That is why I feel that we feel things at the same time.
It’s as if time was trying to tell us something—
to continue to hold on,
to never forget,
to be reminded we are a love beyond time,
however twisted our fate must be.
I will continue to share our story every second I have,
so that you know my love continues—
as that is when I’m certain you can feel me.
In those moments you are uncertain,
I only wish you remember what we had,
since words sometimes lose their luster.
And I hope that a poem written years ago will still meet you where you are now.
That’s why I asked—quietly, almost apologetically—if you believed me.
Because belief feels like connection.
Because belief, from you, would feel like being seen
without needing to perform with words.
I’ll keep trying.
To polish it.
To publish what you mean to me.
To make things better—
not for the world,
but maybe just so one day,
it could sit on a shelf,
and you could open our world
and feel loved in a way no one ever had to explain.
Because I meant all of it.
More than you think.
A Holy Glance
(a journal entry)
I’ve never been able to hide my love.
It shows up in the quietest ways—
especially when I least expect it.
It had been years since I’d last seen her.
I wasn’t supposed to be there.
Just passing through a city I barely knew,
drifting between obligations and silence.
She had crossed my mind earlier that week—
unprovoked, but precise.
A fleeting thought, the kind that lingers without explanation.
And then she appeared.
Some call it chance. Others, fate.
Perhaps the universe speaks in glances and doorways.
She stepped into the café as I sat hidden from her view—
tucked in a blind corner, unnoticed.
I shifted, slowly,
watching her eyes move upward as if searching for something.
Then, they met mine.
Recognition passed quietly between us.
A small smile. No teeth. No noise.
Just the calm that arrives
when something unsettled finds stillness.
She agreed to sit.
A child was pressed against her chest,
sleeping—swaddled in the comfort only a mother can give.
Here before me sat a woman I had once loved—
still loved,
in a way that has nothing to do with romance
and everything to do with reverence.
She loosened part of the sling and spoke softly.
“I’d like to introduce you.”
There was no ceremony in the moment.
No need for it.
Her child rested with a trust
that only new life possesses.
And I, for reasons I could not explain,
felt my face tightening.
I covered my mouth to hide,
but my eyes betrayed me.
There are moments that don’t ask for meaning.
They simply arrive
and reveal what still lives inside us.
She asked if I wanted to touch her child.
“You’ll let me?” I replied—
startled, not by the question,
but by the trust it required.
I extended the back of my finger—
gently brushing her daughter’s cheek.
Soft. Warm. Whole.
Something I’d never known I’d longed for.
I withdrew,
afraid I might disturb her.
I watched a moment longer,
then reached again—cupping her cheek
between two fingers, like a prayer.
She didn’t stir.
Didn’t flinch.
There was peace in that.
I leaned back,
and we locked eyes.
We didn’t speak.
There was nothing to fix.
Nothing to relive.
Just the quiet, clean presence of two people—
no longer what they were,
yet still known to one another.
She told me my tears were beautiful.
I didn’t try to explain what I felt.
Words too often fail to carry the full weight of feeling.
And some truths are not meant to be explained—
only honored through being felt.
A Different Kind of Hunger
I loved with instinct, but I lived as a man.
Before I was a lover, I was searching for meaning.
Love showed me who I was—but so did duty, fear, and fire.
I was not made only to desire—I was made to carry weight, to protect, to rise.
These pieces are not separate from the lover within me—
they are the bones beneath the flame.
Fire and Ice
(the war inside)
Old memories attack the moment.
It’s a forceful entry, and anger resists.
Wishes of outcomes persist.
Retribution brews in a cauldron of vengeance—
a desire to strike back,
an insistence on hate.
Hate can fuel you.
Hate can numb.
Hate is a flame that boils the cauldron of ice—
a standstill,
a power dynamic,
a fight of two imposing wills
that lives within you.
If I burn,
I am a man on fire,
and everything I touch turns to ashes.
If I freeze,
I numb the things I touch
and shatter them to dust.
I seek the warmth in the cold to stay alive,
and the cold in the heat to give relief.
I am both fire and ice—
a balance of power I yield to,
a force I harness
once my mind is clear of smoke and frost.
And when emotions settle,
I can observe the aftermath of chaos,
or the restraint that tilled the soil
for new ideas to grow.
Only time can tell what grows.
But if I bury what boils and freezes me,
I can tend the elements in the dark—
and grow something green
that will release fresh air
in time to come.
Drifting in Fire
(a soul caught between belonging and becoming)
Memories float along with my mind.
A drifting presence as eyes turn back time.
A thought from the past relives…
I am looking but blind.
I look, I observe, I drift and think.
I mix memories with what I witness
and what I wish were true—a truth?
Is this a life of illusion—
to mix what is and what could be—
a truth and an idea?
I struggle to witness something new and true.
Not now. Something stops me.
My mind searches for truth
while deeply living a lie.
I want what another has, but not really.
I am drawn in a moment.
I envy and punish my thoughts.
I observe my thoughts and unpunish my thoughts.
I see beauty and purpose
in the way people walk.
People belong.
I see companionship,
shared moments between friends and family.
I observe it all.
I, too, have family and friends,
but they are far away.
Far enough that I am alone.
I see what I want to see,
even the fears—
because fear commands attention.
Who commands me?
I command myself.
I command others.
I am commanded.
I am different things to different people.
Why is that so?
Shouldn’t I be the same for all people?
I am pitied.
I am disliked.
I am loved.
I am a disappointment.
I am hope.
I am potential.
I am a lesson that teaches.
I am everything and nothing.
And I have felt it all.
I have run through time
and felt love.
And I have had hate flow through me.
I have built and destroyed.
I have sought echoes of hope to awaken me.
I have found and lost and hoped to find again.
Some things may never be discovered
and that truth must be discovered,
or else, what will become of me?
What will I be if I fail, upon fail, upon fail?
What am I
if I cannot be proud of what I have achieved—
if all I have tasted is failure—
a truth and a lie as I observed myself.
What will my loved ones think of me?
What will I become?
What have I been?
I speak to purpose.
I speak to being a pillar—
a step to ease the climb in anothers’ suffering.
If I can be a step,
maybe my life was worth something.
Maybe my back is meant to be stepped on
so children can rise.
Maybe my purpose
lives in the moment when I relive memories and drift—
a fleeting thought I missed and miss.
I have built nothing that lasts.
But what withstands the elements anyway?
Stone takes time to decay. I am a stone.
What memories of mine may I gift today?
Who will listen when I have seen better days.
Days that shone with hope,
days that I believed would last.
Golden days have tarnished.
Darkness from the past lives in the shade.
Images shattered.
What matters, and what will matter,
if you cannot matter today?
What lies deep rises and peaks and starts to speak.
Eyes looking out from deep beneath.
Can we escape the deep?
Or am I where I belong?
Does fate listen and bend to will
or does fate decide free from will?
Does will and fate dance like snow and wind?
Or is fate the snow and the wind?
I dance in the wind
and sculpt images from snow,
even when it’s cold and hopeless.
I continue.
I meet uncertainty.
I win and lose and win and lose.
I stagnate
as two steps forward are blown back by the wind.
I want out.
I want in.
I want something different—
something I’ve witnessed and dreamed about.
I seek escape.
Escaping is a dream.
Am I to dream forever?
What is my catalyst?
Am I prepared to battle?
Are you prepared to suffer?
Is it any surprise
most people born and die
within the fate they were gifted?
I am my father and mother,
but I am me.
I am limited by what my hands can feel.
I want to taste the sweet victory of a wishful fate.
Lost and upset,
I turn my head to see what cannot be seen,
what can only be felt with the hand I’ve been dealt.
I look for something
that lies in the hands of an unknown source—
a variable for change.
How much is luck?
How much is hard work?
How much is simply being
at the right place, at the right time?
How bright must I ignite
to burn the sky,
to be felt and seen from a distance?
What is my fuel?
What is my spark?
What is my mark?
Trial by Fire
(a return to the flame)
As age continues, and hopes become unfulfilled, I look back and wonder—did I lack courage?
With courage, you can attempt things that bring you glory. And you may fail.
But failing allows you a fresh perspective.
At the age of 43, I ask myself: How much time do I have left?
What can I pursue—and potentially fail at—in exchange for the opportunity of a fresh pair of eyes?
For too long, I pursued love and ignored my personal journey, my purpose, my growth, my vision.
I wish to become the man on fire I once was.
Is the vigor I once felt relegated to my youth?
Or can an adult man regain and retain his fire for life?
I want to run.
I want to sprint.
I want to achieve things.
I am lost.
I may not know what I want to achieve, but I want the drive.
I want the power within.
I summon the power that lies in my genes—
the restless ambition of fallen souls,
those who have prospered, those who have burned.
I am the fire that can contain itself.
I spur the ground and recycle sediment.
I am the release of chemicals for life to flourish.
I am the leaf and the mammal that eats me.
I am the air for all organisms to breathe.
I am life.
And so are you.
I am also the rot and decay which fouls noses of entitled souls.
My decomposition is necessary for things to grow.
Without death, there is no life.
To live is to die—
of yesterday,
of tomorrow,
of memories that wallow.
I swallow my pain and let it course through my veins,
fueling my heart to breathe,
to function in society and the lonesome plains of grass,
where buffalos once reigned,
where birds traveled and captured visions,
where men fed and landscapes changed.
Society is where I roam, yet it feels distant and not quite home.
I am all that is right and all that is wrong in the world.
I am what is.
I am potential.
I am the whisper in your ears that soothes,
keeping sorrow contained.
I am also the tongue which poisons minds,
which dulls the senses,
which drinks the tears so nothing can flow,
so nothing will grow.
My fingers mold the elements into my will.
My hands create.
But my soul…
My soul.
My identity.
My everlasting energy.
Why does it feel so alone?
Maybe it’s because I stopped living a long time ago.
And so I rise.
I sacrifice myself, seeking redemption.
I am my own salvation,
for I possess a mind to witness the world.
I witness the truth.
I live and no longer sleep,
for sleep is where dreams exist.
The Courage of Duty
(a vow to rise)
Deep inside where the mind speaks to the heart
and the heart sings to the mind,
fear tempers courage.
Fear pumps the heart, igniting the will to live
and fortifies oaths that will protect the innocent.
Most men will possess a burning desire for adventure
and self-sacrifice—to honor family and answer the call of duty.
And for those who are not yet of age to feel the flame of duty,
it is only a matter of time
before the whispers of honor,
the silent vow of courage,
and the voice of sacrifice call you forth.
Without family,
without brotherhood,
without the pride of honor—
the strength that gives purpose and calms the soul—
one may forever roam,
seeking something to love,
something to live for.
And should darkness prevail,
the soul that is lost may seek to conquer
the undeserving, those with no fault,
rather than the fear it cannot face.
For a lost soul will drift
without a moral compass,
without righteousness in its heart.
Without duty,
without a sense of honor,
one may live a cowardly life,
if life does not challenge the soul’s innate call
to protect those he loves,
and those he does not know,
but still loves—
for all souls who have felt the nurture of a mother,
have loved,
will love—
as this is a truth that unites humanity.
Your enemy, your distant brothers,
they too love.
They too pursue the passion of honor and duty.
They too have mothers and lovers,
and courage which sings to their thoughts
that shatter the inhibitions that feed the fear.
Who will win and who will lose?
What will be won and what will be lost?
The inquisitor must be the enemy
if they impose their will on another’s way of life.
But what if the imposed oppresses its citizens
in ways that prevent freedom from expressing itself?
Then surely the call to action is just and noble.
And when does the inquisitor become the protector or the oppressor?
When is your will too much or not enough?
To sleep within the shadows
which cast shade of your fears
is to cowardly look away from the light
which reveals the truth of you—
of what is and what could be,
of the darkness and emptiness which speak to you,
and where your honor and sense of righteousness resist.
Live within the shadows,
and you may live,
but die and never know
the worlds that exist in tomorrow—
a future you have a chance at manifesting.
Live and seek the light and you may die,
but live, even for a moment,
and discover the truth of what makes your soul exist—
for a life void of vision and action
is a waste of space,
of purpose,
of opportunity.
A life void of will is a life that will have given up
and extinguished the fire
which fuels your courage
as you burn to ashes
while resting in the fire’s shade.
That shade which brings you comfort
will become your enemy
if time sleeps to ignore
the call of the wild,
the pulse of instinct which stirs within you.
This wild,
this drive that is fueled by a sense of duty—
to family and friends,
and those who you do not know
but who rely on those who you do know
is the kind of love which allows humanity to exist.
The weak and the strong alike possess the courage
for self-preservation and to protect others.
The ones seen as weak are often the most courageous.
Through their bravery
they inspire not only themselves
but others who appear strong
but are too frightened for action.
True courage lives in those
who embrace fear,
accept fate,
love,
resist,
and go forth—
even when hope no longer exists.
This is courage.
This is duty.
No physical aptitude or mental prowess is a prerequisite,
only intent and readiness.
Hold steadfast and face your fears,
which is one fear cloaked in many faces.
Let not fear escape,
chase it and welcome it
so you may smile in its face—
in acceptance,
in defiance,
in understanding,
in transformation,
in bringing you closer to God.
You are action,
body,
state,
and intent,
capable of shaping fate.
And fate,
you accept.
Who am I?
(a question of being)
What have I done?
What have I become?
What more must I do, and why?
Who is my enemy,
when a man has love in his heart?
How can a man who kisses his children to sleep,
who holds his wife when she weeps,
be an enemy of mine?
What are we, if not siblings of the same world—
an earth that spins for us,
not for eternity,
but for a brief, borrowed moment?
Who am I?
I share a moment in time
with all that breathes today,
with all that dreams,
with all that exists—
in words, in chirps,
in motions, in vibrations.
We are fragments of the same mystery,
whispers of the same plea,
children of a world
that fights to let us exist.
This Earth—
we treat it as nothing more than ground beneath us,
forgetting it is the cradle that bore us,
the skin that held us close
before we knew our own names.
Who am I to bring suffering
to a world that has suffered for me?
I am not the destroyer.
I am the protector.
I create so that life may continue,
so that inspiration may spark,
so that fire may rise
in those who have forgotten
they were born to burn bright.
You are the spark.
I am your fuel.
I am me, and so are you.
Together we breathe air we cannot keep.
We bind together—
not as an ideal, but as truth.
The truth of you
is what you have done,
what you have become,
what you must do,
and the questions that lead you
closer to this thing called life.
When She Rested Her Dreams With Me
(a sacred moment)
I watched her for a while.
Focused, elegant,
bathed in the glow of her work and silence.
She typed,
paused,
smiled—
then looked out the window,
as if the world beyond the glass
had something sacred to say.
She didn’t notice me at first.
I was content
just witnessing her move
with quiet grace,
weathering whatever she carried within.
And when she finally saw me,
she smiled—
stood up
like she’d been waiting
for something familiar to return.
I felt it.
I felt her heart,
the way it moved toward me
without fear.
Her presence was music,
her glance, a chord
I’ll always remember.
I told her
I would never disappear.
That I was still here—
anchored,
present,
intent on making her feel safe.
I wanted her to know
what it feels like
to be loved unconditionally.
Because once you know that kind of love,
you begin to love yourself
in the same way.
That is my gift—
my wish.
That she feels what I feel.
That she believes it,
the way stars believe in nightfall
without needing proof of the dawn.
I told her
I’d do everything she asked of me.
She told me she wanted to rest her head on my chest.
She said she wanted to cry until her eyes dried.
And I told her
I would be honored to be her nest,
her bulletproof vest,
to protect her feelings
long after the pain had vanished.
I will forever cherish her,
and I will always remember the moment
she rested her dreams with me.
Being alone isn’t so lonely anymore.
I was blessed by the touch of innocent love—
where a hug is more powerful
than the taste of flesh.
I wondered what I had done
to gain this honor.
I did not travel long distances.
I did not risk my life.
I simply opened my heart and looked within.
I let out what came through me
so others would hear—
so others would know they are not alone,
So she would never be alone.
Maybe that’s all it takes
to feel this majestic feeling:
to be vulnerable
without fear of consequence.
To simply exist the truth
that aims no harm—
only an aim to nurture and love,
and to feel the might and power of becoming one.
I rest my arms and look to the sky,
not with regret, but reverence—
for what I pursued,
for what I held,
for what I lost.
I witnessed something divine.
It transformed my life.
Just being near her light
reminded me I had some of my own.
And if I had to give it up
for her to remain—
I would.
Maybe that’s why
the gift of her was taken away.
Some lights aren’t meant to be kept—
only to be seen
once in a lifetime.
Where Sky Meets Shoulder
(a shoreline of desire)
When her chin meets her shoulder in a smile,
I shrink—as if my shoes were melting,
as if cheek met bone at a summit’s peak,
where the sky became the place our eyes could meet.
I want to follow the trail of her shoulder,
a romantic beach,
and trace the ridges of goosebumps,
the sands I command,
to taste the salt of sweat, the fruits of the sea,
where treasure rests in a ‘C’—a concave
which calls to me,
where echoes linger,
where pearls are made,
where whispers tread,
and words are kept.
As sounds emerge, the hearts will flirt.
As smiles exchange, so will fate.
As eyes absorb forms and craft memories that reach,
our minds shall see—heartfelt—the possibilities,
the dreams once wished upon a star,
in a time where loneliness lurked,
now buried deep beneath the sea,
forgotten moments that sleep.
The Echo of Love’s Fire
The poems of Flesh Remembered the Flame remind us that love’s fire is never only physical—it is emotional, spiritual, eternal. These verses trace the arc of passion as it moves from ecstasy to memory, from fire to ash, from touch to truth.
Flames Between Us burns with both promise and surrender, while The Taste of a Memory carries the sensual sweetness that lingers long after. Some Dreams Are Just Memories reflects on fatherhood and sacrifice, while Where the Sun Forgets to Rise offers a lunar meditation on connection that feels both near and unreachable. Instinctual Love, Like a Rose, and Nine Lives explore tenderness, remembrance, and desire’s persistence in forms both playful and sacred.
Other pieces, like Fire and Ice and Trial by Fire, confront the dual nature of passion—the power to build and the power to destroy—while The Courage of Duty and Who am I? expand intimacy into a wider meditation on purpose, family, and humanity. Finally, When She Rested Her Dreams With Me and Where Sky Meets Shoulder remind us that love is not only passion fulfilled, but reverence, presence, and the beauty of fleeting, sacred moments.
Taken together, this section affirms that intimacy is more than an act—it is an imprint. Passion becomes memory, memory becomes devotion, and devotion becomes the fire we carry forward. Flesh Remembered the Flame shows that love is not only what we feel in the moment, but what remains—etched into flesh, engraved in memory, alive in the heart.
The Enduring Pulse of Instinctual Love
Instinctual Love isn’t a neat arc—it’s the record of how love finds us, marks us, and lives on inside us. Across these pages, love arrives as spark, becomes storm, burns as flame, and returns as memory—never gone, only changed.
Where the Stars First Saw Us holds the holy instant of recognition—the glance that rearranges a life, the first gravity between two souls. The Beautiful Wound dwells where tenderness and ache become indistinguishable, showing how devotion and loss carve lasting shape. Flesh Remembered the Flame moves into the body’s archive, where touch becomes imprint and memory keeps breathing long after the ember dims.
If these poems offer anything lasting, it is this: love—instinctive, unreasonable, undeniable—both wounds and heals. It teaches what we’re willing to risk and what we’re able to carry. The scar is proof of the cut, but also of the healing; the echo is proof that the song was real.
This is not love perfected—it’s love as it’s lived: chaotic, holy, bittersweet, unforgettable. To have felt it, even once, is to be changed. And once touched by that fire, nothing is ever quite the same again.