I’ve failed
to find your grave
so I pretend you're still alive
I persuade the candle
fresh from the cemetery
to celebrate your birthday cake instead
I speak the candle’s language
my mouth is already aflame
But you
you burned
from the weight of your own words
They smelled of lamp oil
each sentence
a self-immolation
And yet
from the candle’s thread
I expect not burning
but mending
If it could stitch the alpha to the omega
our unity would ignite
Then
when I search for you
I would be searching for myself
The final fate of flames
is a fragile seam
the trembling line
between togetherness
and rupture
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist, Ernest Williamson III, PhD
