Candlelight Poetry

The light is out tonight.
The wind brought down the electric poles
and put half the city to sleep.
The other half,
the horny, depressed
and in love
find shelter in this massive strangeness of rest
that gathers over the city like a heavy blanket of mist.

 

In our home,
the battery lamps last awhile
but the hours finally bring out the candles
and fire
and a little melancholy
to fill this silence between our mouths.

 

At one corner,
the shaking firelight burns
on tears of its own annihilation
and I wonder if that is what happens to all lovers
like you
and me.

 

We sit facing each other,
our features dissolved in the shadows
and our words escaping
in soft
in caution
in retired verve
unwilling to break this warp of space.

 

The candle nears its end now.
We are deep in each other’s arms and we can’t let go.

 

Fire has always seemed brave and powerful
to me.
But tonight,
it is a fucking idiot
that burnt down the only home that could give any meaning to its rage.

 

We wake up in the morning,
with the sunlight across our faces
and the familiar clamour of the world.

 

I scratch the melted wax from the floor,
and for a moment
I look at you.

 

We are nothing like the fire.
We are nothing like the fire.

 


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