Needless Things: Rising Phoenix

I loved you like the fire loves the sky Briefly, brightly, without asking why. You burned my wings, then begged me to fly, And watched me fall, too proud to cry.

I rose again from ash and ache, Believing pain was some mistake. But every flight I dared to take Was shaped by what you chose to break.

You taught me love was earned through flame, Through silence, blame, and shifting name. You kissed me sweet, then played your game A phoenix scorched, yet I stayed the same.

I gave you sparks; you gave me smoke. You said, “It’s love,” and then you broke The very vow you never spoke, A cage built soft, a noose in oak.

But here’s the twist, the cruelest part: Rebirth began when you lost my heart. You taught me love, then tore apart, The wings that hid my truest start.

Now flames don’t frighten grief became grace. I rose above with fire burning behind my face. And you, still grounded in your place, Chase shadows that you cannot replace.

I loved you deep, but I was wrong: The phoenix isn’t born from song. It’s born from silence, sharp and long— From losing love to find what’s strong. NNN