the wick

our love was like the Yankee candle wick
burning slowly, small flame, particles of black smoke;
melting the wax,
creating a puddle of hot liquid,
reminding me of the way your juices saturate my skin,
burning me slightly, but not enough for me to pull away,
enticing me for more,
and as it drips, cooling down,
and begins to harden,
waiting for you to peel it off,
revealing a rebirth of us;
cleansed and smooth as if the rough patches and wrinkles
of the past no longer existed in this new environment.
The candle wick burns, slowly, as I’ll always yearn for you.

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Recently moved back to the States after living 16 months in Vietnam. I write to remove the thoughts trapped in the cobwebs of my psyche before the spider envelopes me whole.

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