Image for the poem Life During Candles

Life During Candles

Our life during the life of a candle;
I never meant for it
to be as a time keeper.
A subtle way of telling us
it's time to go, once it burns low.
Our heroics, as lovers, over
as I melt inside you.
And as the flame pushes itself down,
discarding the wax aside
into the sudden past.
Becoming another hardened memory,
as we soften our stances
of what we are
after these 'what we just were'.

The candles are always intended
the way I've used them.
Each, just as much a doorway
as it was a key.
To the real me.
No one else ever got as close.
No one else was allowed.
To the illuminations of that room
inside me, besides you.
That lantern view,
where our fears hover behind us.
Envious of true pure light.

Other women only get the glare
that peeks through
the mostly closed bathroom door.
It's barely a butter knife
of incandescence,
that can't spread far
across anything.

While you,
away from the rules of a candle
-Because you promised, too;
Other men only get you
with the streetlight
coming through your
bedroom window.

You have a regular guy now,
younger than me.
Less grey,
more muscle.
That's toned by carrying you
with one arm at a time.
As he opens the door
with the other.

(I can still carry you.
But you'll have to lean down
and turn the knob for us.
I'll kick it open, then.
I can still use
all of my body
to get us inside things.)

While I, at times,
must make do;
Allow someone my bed.
I wanted to tell her
to get off your pillow.
I wish I could've
put the bed away
and fucked her on the floor.
Let her get some burns
on her knees and elbows.
Make her suffer that way,
for not being you.

She asked, about the candles;
Brand new, on the night table.
Don't touch them, I told her,
they weren't for her.
They're for my confessions
to my deity.
(Yes, I know you're no goddess.
Because you're too modest.)

This one doesn't get to have
my whispers to her treasure chest.
There are no priceless gems inside, like yours.
When my mouth blends heats
with your breasts.
When we dig into each other,
body with body.

My tongue slipped, and
I called her by your name.
But I'm only apologising to you.
That's what happens
when I close my eyes
and all is dark.
No matter what they do.

She sees the handful;
The random pieces of a puzzle
on my dresser.
Accuses me of being too lazy
to put them away,
back into the box.

It's not her fault.
She doesn't know, how
whenever you come over,
you lay another piece down.
And say how eventually
we'll get there.

She sees the one,
with a drop of wax
melded atop it.
Oh, she says, you do
burn candles at times.

Yes, but, that's none
of her business.

Meanwhile, over wherever I'm not,
a moment of idle,
when he lets you up to pee.
He sees the box cover
-A five thousand piece puzzle.

With its image of a house
supporting a bricked chimney
without smoke.
It's a cold puzzle, still, for now.
Some pieces given
to another man's dresser.
As a down payment
to a makeshift relationship.
(Until we commit
all of the pieces of us).

He wants to assemble it.
But his inexperienced fingers
would fray the edges,
to where no piece
lays smoothly with another.
Like bodies on a subway
touching, but not because
of purposed movements of their own.

I know you'll tell him no.
You don't have to explain
some subtle things.
It's not his house on the cover
that you're working on.

I can't wait until you come over again.
I've got gold colored candles.
I think we're ready for that.
Even if the light is always the same,
it'll feel a little brighter.

The shadows cast,
will appear a bit sharper.
The edges of the pieces
of our puzzle
will seem less frayed.

Written by Styxian
Author's Note
Yeah, it's a lengthy one. Sometimes it takes a lot of space to say what I want to.
Thank you to those who stay with it.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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