Between Bruises and Blooms

Never trust
a candle
that burns too still.

Mine stood perfectly straight,
its flame unmoving
despite the restless trees.

The house watched.

I felt it.

Not through windows—

through memory.

As though every brick
still remembered
the hands that built it,
the children that ran through it,
the last breath
ever taken inside.

The longer I sat,

the quieter the birds became.

The quieter the birds became,

the louder
the silence grew.

When the wick finally died,

I heard someone whisper,

“Come back.”

I still think about it
whenever I strike a match.