my fingers
are coated in a smooth
transparent film

of wax
from my own
mini candle

wax is
in fact
everywhere

in the crevasses
the skin
of my palms

scattered
about the thighs
of my pants

because i
have been childishly
crumbling it

unlike any of my surrounding
more mature
counterparts

because
i'm anxious
and sad

the now-desheviled stick
then brings me
to tears

when the lights
dim
and the flame

is passed around
like blessing
and hopes

in the
crisp wintery evening
in this church

the flame
only rises
in silence

the silence
is sharp
like a needle

it weaves
through the hearts
of the crowd

there are so many
and yet
it is silent

and the candle
is now
crying as well

milky fat tears
that tumble
and harden

in thin air
defying the laws
of physics

and everything
is dark and silent
except our flames

those flames
they only
rise