What the Candle Left

My roommate left a candle burning

when she moved out without a note,

just the wick still turning

in the draft through the open door.

The label wore away from heat.

I couldn't tell what scent was meant—

vanilla, lavender, something spent

trying to make this room feel right,

but all I smelled was leaving,

all I saw was the small flame

moving in the air of an empty space.

I almost blew it out.

Stood there, mouth open,

watching the wax pool and thin.

Instead I let it burn itself to nothing,

let the small light linger

in the dark where she'd been,

let it finish what it started,

let it do what candles do:

disappear into the air

and leave you standing in the dark.