Burning Alone

I lit the candle in the morning,

small gesture toward the light.

I forgot about it. No warning—

hours passed. I came back at night

to find it burned to almost nothing,

the wax blackened and pooled

at the bottom. But something

was still burning, still fueled.

The flame was small and stubborn,

the room thick with stale smell,

faintly acrid, almost bourbon-

scented. I stood there, fell

into watching it burn,

this thing I'd forgotten,

this small, steady turn

of wax into something rotten.

I let it burn.

Didn't blow it out.

Just closed the door. My turn

was over. No doubt—

I left it alone

in that empty room,

still burning, still its own

small, relentless bloom.