In the living room
You watch the candle burn beside the window,
Your eye fixed upon the black tether
Between the wax and the light.
A wick is a quiet clock,
And memory is a deep held breath
You cannot expire.
There is nothing beyond the glass
You wish to see,
And you would shut the blinds
But do not wish to move.
When a child dies, the world closes like a fist.
Apology becomes the fossil of promise.
You keep digging until you are sorry for everything,
And you keep lighting candles until a phoenix rises.
But it never does.