Poem: The Candle

Anne Stephanie Cruz
Revision 1

my candle burns at both ends
you say,
primed wick licking
cast paraffin,
tip-to-tip

preventable, yes
but listen:
wax drippings are memories,
not tears--one end passion
the other pain;
a trail of petals shed,
overlapping then melding
into a molten mirror
of itself

it may not last the night,
i know,
its flame is a finger raised to your lips:
hush luv,
candles were made to yield;
its soul is life emptied to create light,
burning bright
before self-extinguishing
at the appointed hour

if, as you tell me,
everything is borrowed time
i should, like the candle,
embrace the inevitable:
yield to that last brush of wind
from your lips,
myself becoming a spent
burnt offering

a candle
unafraid to be consumed
choosing to burn
irreverently for you
than live in a glass case
damp and unlit.