NaPoWriMo Day 22 – “Two Men, One Fire”

Happy Wednesday, and welcome back to Day 22 of Na/GloPoWriMo 🔥🥃

Today’s prompt leans into something both playful and deceptively deep—writing a poem where the speaker is in conversation with themselves. Inspired by Jaswinder Bolina’s “Mood Ring,” this idea of duality—of being both the voice and the one answering—opens the door to something raw, reflective, and a little unhinged in the best way.

For this one, I leaned into the long nights that built Whiskey and the Autumn Wind—the research, the obsession, the weight of studying Ernest Hemingway’s minimalist style… and what it costs to try to write that simply.

Here’s my take.

“Two Men, One Fire”

The fire was low
but not dying—
just thinking about it.

I poured another finger of whiskey.
Or two.

“You always overpour.”

I didn’t look up.
“Only when it matters.”

A pause.
The cigar burned uneven,
ash leaning like it might confess something.

“You wanted to write it clean,”
he said.

“I did.”

“Like him.”

I took the drink.
Let it sit.
Let it argue with me.

“Not like him,” I said.
“Because of him.”

He laughed—quiet,
like it came from the walls.

“You read everything, didn’t you?”

“All of it.”

“The sentences.”

“Yes.”

“The silences?”

That one stayed longer.

The fire shifted.
Wood settling into itself.

“I tried,” I said.

He leaned forward—
or maybe I did.

“That’s the problem,” he said.
“You tried to be minimal.”

“I stripped it down.”

“No,” he said.
“You shaved it raw.”

The cigar cracked at the edge.
I tapped it into the tray.

“You think he didn’t feel it?”

“I know he did.”

“Then why’d you hide it?”

“I didn’t hide it.”

“You buried it.”

Another drink.
This one burned faster.

“It’s in there,” I said.

“Where?”

“In the spaces.”

He smiled.
I could feel it without seeing it.

“That’s the gamble, isn’t it?”

The fire popped—sharp, sudden.

“You leave it out,” he said,
“and hope they feel it anyway.”

“That’s the point.”

“That’s the risk.”

We sat there—
both of us—
watching something turn to embers.

“You think you got close?”

“To him?”

He nodded.
I shook my head.

“No.”

“Good.”

I looked up then.

“Why good?”

“Because you weren’t supposed to.”

The room felt smaller.
Or maybe clearer.

“You wrote the wind,” he said.
“Not the man.”

The glass was empty.
I didn’t remember finishing it.

“And the whiskey?” I asked.

He leaned back into me.

“That part,” he said,
“you didn’t have to research.”

The fire held.
So did the silence.

And for once—
it said enough.

There’s something about this prompt that forces honesty—you can’t really hide when you’re both the one asking and the one answering.

Sometimes the hardest conversations aren’t with critics or readers… they’re the ones that happen long after midnight, when it’s just you, the work, and whatever’s left in the glass.

If you enjoyed this poem and whiskey, you may also find a kindred rhythm in my book, Whiskey and the Autumn Wind.

Whiskey and the Autumn Wind is a collection rooted in the same season you’ve just stepped into—where the air turns sharp, the light grows softer, and everything begins to let go. These poems carry the weight of memory, the burn of reflection, and the slow, steady acceptance that comes with change. There’s a glass on the table, leaves at your feet, and a voice that doesn’t rush—only lingers where it matters.

If you’re drawn to poetry that feels lived-in…
to quiet moments that echo long after the page…
to the kind of writing that sits with you like a late autumn evening—

then this collection is waiting for you.

You can find it here: Amazon, Barnes and Noble

If you want to explore more voices answering today’s prompt. Step beyond this page and into the wider current of #NaPoWriMo—where each voice bends the world in its own way. You can find them here: https://napowrimo.net/

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