On most of these days,
she spends her time alone.
Dark brown locks draped over her shoulder,
ivory skin and feathered eyelashes,
a scarlet layered skirt topped by a white blouse.
She folds her hands over that crooked skull
resting in her lap,
running her fingertips across the bleached bone,
over and over again
until it is smooth enough to catch the light:
the light from the flickering yellow flame,
basking over her with its dimming glow,
casted in reflection from the mirror behind it.
Further back, she sees darkness.
She stares into those shadows,
the everlasting expanse of the night,
a blanket of starless dust.
At her feet are scattered pearls,
unclasped strands of necklaces,
gemstone earrings,
silver-threaded bracelets.
Discarded, they remain,
catching the last glimmers of light
before fading into the shadows, as well.

Her hands run over that skull, still,
continuously,
as time crawls on, inch by inch.
Like that, absorbed in her own thoughts
and the pensive repetition,
she contemplates.

Her eyes glance down,
tearing away from the darkness,
into that flicker of flame
burning over the candle’s wax.
The flame runs long,
stretching as far as it can.
Pale and yellow, it burns on and on.
The mirror behind it, which once reflected
those abandoned pearls,
now captures the light,
the flame,
the cream-colored wax,
and the shining copper candle-holder.
In the flame,
perhaps she sees herself,
or something else beyond that,
something greater that only few understand.
Regardless, she peers into the flame, and
she contemplates.

She leaves the flame—  
the darkness behind her, yet again,
drawing her in with its endlessness,
its eternity.
She sits there,
head twisted to the night,
hands paused in movement,
fingers locked together.
The candle flickers, but it still runs its flame,
and there she remains,
looking out into the silence,
into the darkness, yet still
in the light,
in contemplation.