I live my life through the words I write
On the centerpiece, on the table
they have sat, unopened,
untouched save for the dust cloth.
Unwilling to admit my longing,
I fill my head with stories
of how the timing must be better,
not now,
to make the experience worthwhile.
The present moment, for months,
unworthy.
Unworthy
of experiencing the beauty,
the tranquility,
the magic
of moments like these.
Re-writing stories
by candlelight.
I’m tired of hiding,
of trying to cover up the parts of me
that express who I am.
I no longer want to be
always searching for the appropriate mold
for each situation
and contort to fit into it.
For too long
I’ve melted my wax body into a glass jar
so someone else can light the wick
enjoy the scent I burn.
Now, I burn for myself.
Just because a candle isn’t burning
doesn’t mean it can
or will
no longer burn again.
Grant myself permission
to sit, just sit
here, with a glass of wine
and blanket wrapped around my shoulders,
eyes fixed, but unfocused
on the flickering candle
there, on the coffee table.
Sit. Just sit,
and do nothing else.
Flickering flames of light
illuminate the air and objects around them,
dancing to a song only they can hear
with thin ribbons of smoke trailing up
from their outstretched arms
and dissipating into nothingness.
I wonder what song they’re dancing to
and how they can perform in both
syncronisity and individuality.
My eyes plead me not to attempt at
watching them all;
focus on one only –
I see a flame that dances by itself
but also
joins in with the others,
and another does the same.
I wonder if I can be like that, too.
Dawning Words 