The candles were out
I couldn’t figure it out
what I’d done to be alone in the dark
on a table set for two but hosting one
The candles are out, I still don’t think I deserve to be by myself, like a racehorse running for the finish – euphoric – trained to do this, of course—it can’t remember unseating a jockey, it feels like victory because the horse doesn’t know the aim of the game: don’t pass the post alone.
Now, I’m scrolling back through thoughts and text, with wine and cheese and bread, accompaniments, a wholesome trinity for taking the mind to the affinity of taste buds and off memories and the presently, who scorch me like a rider’s whip if I go near ’em.
All churches smell like this, the smoke from blown-out candle wicks
the same smell that imprints itself to birthday wishes
If it was amber and warm, now it’s crusty and cold,
hard to see through the settled wax that folds my lids, as for being forgot I never did wish
This plain table becometh an altar, for breaking bread and heart, singular
Not worshiping but questioning; belief in man and love and all things nestled with
dreams of a life, the only purpose of a species desperate-to-love,
Why is everyone desperate to leave?
So much so, they don’t even arrive