Yesterday you picked
up the candle
burning by my bed,
this smells like a memory
you said, and my breath skipped
because the last time it glowed
was the night we learned
how to touch in the dark
while my mom slept upstairs.

Its shadows danced
across the walls
as we caught marshmallows
in our mouths,
and laughed our way
through 16 almost kisses,
by my count, fueled on
by the intoxicating smell
of our only light.

We watched the sunrise
through the tiny window
in my inviting basement
before I helped you sneak out,
full on promises of "tomorrow"
but it's been three months
since I've seen you
in that candle's light,
and I watched you sniff it
one more time before handing it
off to her--
*does this smell familiar, babe?