Your heat lit the cold candlestick,
turning its white fuse into bright orange
whose light illuminate my night

The flame’s dances are no ordinary dance;
they bewitch our hands and lips to
sway to its song, sharing warmth in its light.

The tear-shaped wax drops, however, worry me —
they drip and drip as the flame got us tighter in its grip,
like deadly tick of a metronome
that counts down the life of the candlestick

Yet in the shadow of its closure
the warmth of the flame feel sure,
and the dance is such a lure —
so much that it leaves no choice
but to devour every last bit of light
and let the candle burns as long as it might.