Since sixteen,
I have never blown out a candle
without you in my heart.
Every birthday wish,
every soft flame trembling before me,
I have sent your name into the smoke
like a prayer that only I could hear.
At first it was innocent—
a teenager’s hope,
folded between frosting and laughter.
But years later, I still lean forward,
still close my eyes,
and every flicker of flame
becomes another chance to call you closer.
Now it has become something holier.
In quiet chapels,
I light a candle before Jesus’s statue,
watch the wax melt like longing,
and ask God to hold you in His hands—
or maybe to place your hand in mine.
From birthday tables to altar steps,
from laughter to silence,
I have carried this flame for you.
It feels almost holy,
the way love has stretched across time,
from the glow of birthday candles
to the steady flame of faith.
And each year, with every spark I set alive,
I ask for the same thing:
You.
And still, after all these years,
my wish remains the same:
that someday, you’ll know
you’ve been loved
in every light I’ve ever lit.
