I wish I could hold
your hand,
but instead, I am
forced to cling to
the pale orange glow of
a dying
candle, and watch
as memories
fall
between
my fingertips.
You spend the night
sipping chai tea
in front of
our bubbling fireplace,
while I gather my patch-
work romanticism,
frame our
futures, then tuck them
into the ashes.
I’ll leave by morning,
while you snore
quietly. I’ll step
into
brown leather boots,
as the gray dawn
makes me catch
my breath.
But the wax will
drip, will
tickle the legs
of your antique
coffee table,
and you’ll
miss me.