The last orb of milky wax drips.
The candle's finally gone out.
The dead wick is still coughing up smoke.
It is hard to imagine now,
so hard to accept,
seeing what I see now,
that this blackened wick
once was home to
a radiant flame.
My radiant flame.
And although I knew it was coming,
for candles never last,
I never really understood
what it would be to live
without your flickering, fiery light
to illuminate the dark.
To warm me in the night.
The letters keep on coming,
slipping through the mail-slot
in the ash-wood front door.
I haven't read a single one.
I'm still uncertain that you're gone
with the wick still clearly present here,
smoke creeping into my lungs.
Milky wax is but a reminder
of how much the world has lost.
Grief always slips in when the candles go out.
And yet, I always light another one—
knowing, full well, the cost.
