No One Said They Were Leaving

The apartment smelled like wax before I saw it—

the candle already going in the living room,

the table holding it in its own small pool.

No note.

No text until nine.

I stood in the doorway long enough

to check whether something was wrong,

and then understood: nothing was wrong.

Someone just left without saying.

I sat down across from it.

The room was almost dark.

The wax had pooled in a shallow ring around the wick,

the ceiling catching just enough light

to see by—the couch, the corner,

the stack of mail I hadn't dealt with.

The text came in at nine.

Sorry, went early! Forgot to tell you.

I put the phone down.

The candle had maybe an hour left in it.

I didn't blow it out.