Oh the wax
upon my fingers,
burns of antecedent time;
sticky and unpleasant.
Drips of vagueness,
like tears before bed.
Crying appeal always so strange.
The shape of you,
a thin tall tower of white.
Sometimes red,
as my eyes staring at the dark's
only light.
Scented in desire,
an orange jelly at her centre,
I'd love you only now,
but what of later's pleasure?
The winds of my lungs kills the light,
with it's dues of pressure.
Ssssttt—goes the after echo,
of wet fingers on wick.
Feeling an empty dark
without you around.
A feeling once lit.
