Like a candle once bright,
its wax pooled at the base,
the flame leans low,
then gives itself to night.
So love, left silent,
keeps the shape of warmth
long after light is gone—
a room grown cold
around what used to burn.
What once was sweet
grew hard upon the tongue;
promises thinned
to words no longer kept.
What remained
was not silence,
but the weight of it:
two chairs
facing one another,
and nothing crossing
the room.
4d ago
May 31, 2026 at 1:00 PM UTC
Like a candle once bright,
its wax pooled at the base,
the flame leans low,
then gives itself to night.
So love, left silent,
keeps the shape of warmth
long after light is gone—
a room grown cold
around what used to burn.
What once was sweet
grew hard upon the tongue;
promises thinned
to words no longer kept.
What remained
was not silence,
but the weight of it:
two chairs
facing one another,
and nothing crossing
the room.
The poem compares a dying relationship to a candle whose flame lowers and gives itself to night.
Though the light is gone, the shape of warmth remains, leaving behind a cold room haunted by what once burned.
As love grows silent, sweetness hardens, and promises lose their weight.
Request permission to use this poem