If I were a candle
If I were a candle, I would be the scent of milk and honey- the shampoo my grandmother lathered through my hair at every sleepover.
As my wick burns and aroma fills the air, memory and reality blur together. May you feel held by the hot water, claw foot tub, and sunlight that cast a warm glow through the crooked windowpane. Memere’s sharp nails scratch my scalp, but she is careful not to get water in my eyes. This is love. This is peace.
My flame flickers, setting a rhythm for a young couple to dance to; their silhouettes twirl across the dining room walls.
Relight me with every new lover. Let me ease your fears of being touched. Remember what it is to be cared for by hands that move with unconditional love.
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If I am a Candle
If I am a candle, then
I am still smoking.
Birch, cade, cedar. Inhale and
If I were a Candle
Back then, I was still smoking
Birch, cade, oak, exhale
If I were still a candle.
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: Brown
I feel I am a brown scent, but I am not visually brown. I am black in appearance and my wick is burning, the flame rising upward with hardly any movement. In a silent room you could hear the faint crackle of my burning. If you bit into me you would taste nothing but wax. Although such would be hard because I’m enclosed in glass, your standard candle. At the end of the evening, I see myself being extinguished by isolation, like someone closed the door and the windows and the vents, so that I died out via no oxygen.
But that is the brown scent, the scent of Nature and Melodramatic Pleasure. I give off grass, cardboard, campfire, ink, ocean, turmeric.
If I were a candle I would be that.
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Almost a Rhythm
A lit candle gently fills the space with a new scent. It’s grounded and woody, reminiscent of antique furniture and cedar trees. It has a sweetness like sticky caramel and ripe figs.
The wax burns in a small amber vessel, creating a warm glow. You hear a faint crackle that almost has a rhythm.
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a wooden wick
