Poetry

Wick

Match drawn.

Flick. It's a dud.

Flick. My matchbox is damp.

Flick. Finally a dry one. I carefully bring the wavering flame to my candle, wishing to feel the comfort its warmth will bring. It's my favorite scent. It reminds me of home. It reminds me of love. It reminds me of you. This flame burning away at my candle's wick. It reminds me of you. I am at peace because of this flame and this candle. The flame slowly, slowly climbs down the wick. The puddle of wax grows around my candle. Hours go by and my wick is small. My wick is small because of this warm and comforting flame is climbing down peacefully. I let it. I let it eat away at my candle because I want its warmth. I want your warmth, little flame. Comfort me. My wick is dangerously low and so is the sun. I grow tired. You grow tired of burning my wick. You grow tired of burning for me. I grow tired of being awake.

I am tired. 

I close my eyes.

You burn out.

I wake up and feel your warmth next to me under these sheets. I feel the cold breeze of the fan against the tears on my face, causing these icy rivers to irritate my eyes. I see your face, sleeping comfortably. Your sleep is wavering as the sun rises. I smile and dry my eyes. It's time for you to wake up. It's time for you to see my face and see the sun. Let's go candle shopping today.

And let's get your favorite scent.

Your favorite scent and a box of matches.

Just for us. Just for you. Just for me.

Let's be comfortable. 

Together.