I love by latching on too tightly; I thought I could hold you in the palm of my hand for awhile, the way I used to catch the wind, or tried to, when I was small. Hands hungry and determined, I placed you high up on the candelabra, and did not understand when I found you out of reach. And unable to hold you, or feed you, each little weep-drop of wax was a grain of sand, counting every second to a certain end.
But choking fire has its way of leaving chokers burned, and in salvaging my heart and hands, I loved you with my eyes. You never burn to make the room blush, or to sway the sex of lovers. You burn for warmth, to warm and be warmed, and dry the tears and frost and rain from the stricken, in the hopes that one day, someone will ease them from you. Through misery comes compassion, freedom through walls, and you and I are not the only things that crumble. And when I am gone, you will burn; when you are gone, you will burn, and I will be glad not to have been the death of you, so I let you burn.