The Iron Worn

Love once lived like iron left in the ground

bright when unearthed,

then dulling with each touch that went unkept.

We held each other like blacksmiths hold metal,

striking too hard,

believing heat alone would make it strong.

But heat without patience only cracks.

And so we split.

No explosion, no grand undoing

just the quiet sound of two stubborn metals

refusing to weld cleanly.

We called it love,

but it was pride wearing softness as armor.

Years went by,

and time pressed its thumbprint on everything.

The sharp edges of memory blunted,

the dust of distance settling

where our names used to sting.

We built lives like separate roads

carved through the same mountain..

close in stone,

but miles apart in direction.

When we crossed again,

it wasn’t fireworks or destiny..

just a glance that didn’t flinch.

The air between us carried the scent of iron again,

but not the same burn.

It was recognition

the way a craftsman sees their old work

and knows both its failures and its worth.

Laughter came slow,

like sap coaxed from a wounded tree.

Then steady.

It filled the hollow places

we once mistook for strength.

We began to speak in the language of calm,

where silence no longer means retreat

and listening feels like grace instead of surrender.

Now, we shape something quieter..

friendship tempered by every fracture we survived.

It doesn’t glitter like it used to.

It carries weight,

and the kind of patience that only comes

from knowing how easily things can break.

We are not what we were,

and thank the earth for that.

We are the slow polish after corrosion,

the steady hum of tools in use again,

the proof that hands once clumsy with anger

can learn to build instead of bruise.

No vows, no flame.

Just two steady forces

that know how to meet without collision,

how to carry the same fire

without burning the same bridge twice.