The Flame That Burns Alone

How lonely is the flame
that burns for its own fire,
a heart circling inward,
with no breath to echo its ache.

How can love live
without its answering pulse,
without the hush of another soul
to hold it open?

If your heart is both the cup and the wine,
then who drinks?
Who pours?
Who dares to mirror
what overflows alone?

If you offer your heart
to the very hands that made it,
what hands remain
to hold it in return?