When the Fire Went Quiet: A Courtroom of Unspoken Cravings

 

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

 

There was a time when sex was sacred. Not transactional. Not tactical. Sacred. A rhythm beyond rhythm. A dance between two hearts that had spent the day laughing, surviving, touching—truly touching, not just brushing skin but brushing spirit. In those days, sex was not a reward, not a demand. It was a yes whispered through a thousand little moments before the night came. It was mystery. It was madness. It was music.

 

But now?

 

Now, we walk into the bedroom like lawyers entering a courtroom.

Each night is a trial.

Each act, evidence.

Each silence, a cross-examination.

The sheets? Exhibit A.

The groan? Exhibit B.

The eye-roll? Objection sustained.

 

The woman steps forward first. Her voice is soft, almost broken, but her words are sharp.

“Your Honour, he did not do me.”

She clears her throat.

“He finished in three minutes. He wasn’t deep enough. He didn’t look into my eyes. He didn’t touch my soul, only my skin. He didn’t ask me how I felt—he just came for what he wanted and left me cold in the night.”

She looks toward the judge—not to condemn, but to be heard. She is tired of being entered but not understood.

 

The man stands. He does not raise his voice, but the ache is visible in the slouch of his shoulders.

“Your Honour, I object to being reduced to a machine with performance metrics. She didn’t scream like before. She rushed me. She lay there—arms folded, heart absent. She didn’t wait for me to finish emotionally—only physically. She gave me her body, yes, but her warmth was miles away.”

His voice cracks. “She does it to end an argument. Not to begin a union.”

 

And the courtroom falls silent.

 

Because deep down, both know—their love is not dead, but unattended.

They don’t need a verdict.

They need a miracle.

 

And this is how too many marriages function now—under silent litigation. Partners lie beside each other not in passion, but in posturing. Sex becomes a legal duty. Affection becomes a strategy. We dread the nights that used to be fireworks. We perform the act with all the spirit of filing taxes.

 

“Tonight is the night,” she thinks, “Let me just give him what he wants.”

“If I don’t do foreplay from sunrise,” he mutters, “She’ll turn me down again.”

 

We’ve reduced intimacy to a checklist:

—Compliment her dress.

—Fold the laundry.

—Send a flirty text.

—Hope it’s enough to earn connection.

 

It’s exhausting. Not because love is gone. But because the truth is trapped behind years of unresolved pain. And the fire, once so alive, has now curled into the corners, afraid to breathe.

 

 

Philosopher Alain de Botton said it best:

“Love is a skill, not just an enthusiasm.”

And sex, when truly sacred, is the poetry of that skill.

But when it becomes courtroom obligation, it dies. Not with drama. But with silence. With duty. With calendar reminders and muted moans.

 

And so where do these unspoken trials lead?

 

They lead to emotional starvation.

To affairs—not of lust, but of aliveness.

To pornography—not from perversion, but from spiritual drought.

To resentment that simmers beneath polite smiles.

To quiet divorces that don’t reach the court registry, but scream in every forgotten kiss.

 

And yet, hope remains.

 

Because the fire is not extinct—it is buried. Under layers of calendar sex, denied affection, silent dinners, and emotional fatigue. It is not the absence of love that’s killing us. It’s the absence of truth. Of presence. Of feeling.

 

 

To recover it, we must do something radical. We must call off the trial.

No more plaintiff and defendant.

No more “he didn’t do enough” or “she didn’t respond right.”

We must leave the courtroom—and return to the garden.

 

The garden where sex was innocent again. Spontaneous. Curious. Tender.

Where touch wasn’t performance—it was presence.

Where moans weren’t evidence—they were prayers.

 

 

The way back is not a checklist—it’s a soul shift.

 

Start with honesty. Ask: When did we stop seeing each other?

Redefine foreplay. Make it about safety, not seduction.

Let spontaneity return. Kiss for no reason. Write little notes. Sit in silence together until laughter breaks through again.

Remove shame. Talk about what you long for. What you miss. What you mourn.

 

As Rumi once whispered, “There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled. There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled. You feel it, don’t you?”

 

Yes. We feel it.

 

So let us reach not for the verdict, but for the match. Let us put down the courtroom robes and climb under the sheets not to perform, but to reconnect. Let us remember that sex is not about proving anything—it’s about saying, “I am still here. Fully. Wildly. Willingly.”

 

Because love, even on trial, can be acquitted.

And fire, even when quiet, can roar again.