When I hand you a candle, I don’t expect you to burn.  I don’t expect your hands to glove black (ashes are my favorite fashion), and I don’t expect the smoke to be your perfume.

A candle isn’t an eye.  A candle isn’t a jewel.  And a candle isn’t a star.  It can’t show you where the wolves scratch poetry in the chambers of your heart.  It can’t buy you wine pressed from winter promises.  It can’t tell you where your maps are marked with dragons, or dreams, or dust blowing black in the dark.

One chance wind, one chilly word, and a candle gutters out.  You can no more rely on it than you can rely on bells to keep the hours after the sun slams shut.  A candle is the poorest foundation on which to construct any lasting connection.

Yours has flinched into shadow.  But look: I have brought you another, as hot as crushed kisses.  If you become its wick, it might last longer.