On A High Old Bridge In The Dark

Once, I walked around on fire.
Left no bridges for miles behind me.

Someone said
try writing it out,
it’s a good
healer, a good quencher,
you’ll be
at peace.

Safer now,
older now,
I sit up late
and spill into 
paper and ink 
the fuel that once
would have been held
under pressure
within.

The ink
never smolders,
the pen
never scratches out a spark,
the paper
never ignites.

Where did my fire go?

Standing on a high old bridge
in the dark, 
in a place I’ve stood before,
looking down into the white water,
feeling nothing.

Can you tell me why this is better
than burning?