I like to watch candles burning.
I like candles. Burning and melting
itself, leaving behind traces of wax.
Warmth with flicking light,
a slight breathe and the flame goes off.
The melted wax feels good on skin,
stinging for a split second, then
a thin layer sticking faithfully.
It is nearly painless, and so addicting.
Soothing, as compared to other matters.
The candle works hard to burn till
the wick is all gone, till there’s nothing
left to burn. The residue waxes stay still,
leaving an imprint and a mark.
Until that day, it gets scrapped off
with conscious effort.
Candles. Destined to be burnt.
Burnout. Resigned to fate.
Burning. I am a willing party.