Still Going

He cancelled at seven-fifteen by text.

Already dressed, the good candle lit—

the cedar one. I had to find what next

to do. Went to the kitchen. Sat.

Bowl of cereal, the overhead too bright.

The candle kept going in the other room—

I could see the glow, the slight

shift of it through the doorway. The perfume

arrived in waves. Cedar, something soft.

I watched the flame from my chair.

Two hours. The wax ran. The loft

of it still burning. The floral air

still coming. I finally got up.

Blew it out.

The bent wick.

The wax pooled and dried on the holder.

The room still smelling like something

that was supposed to happen.