The Flame

I lit it and forgot about it, left it burning bright,

on the shelf while I did other things, lost in the night—

other rooms, other tasks that seemed to matter more

than a small flame in an empty room, a small burning core.

When I came back, hours later, it was still going strong.

The wick was shorter. The wax was pooling. I'd been gone too long.

The light was moving on the walls

like something alive, like something that calls

to the darkness, refusing to fade,

a small act of continuation, a thing that's made

itself keep burning without my help,

without needing me to make it yelp

back to life. I watched it for a while,

the way the flame kept moving, kept its style

of burning, kept insisting on its light.

Then I blew it out.