Candle

All that's left is a towering wisp of smoke... Yet I remember the sizzling hiss of the match she lit. The burnt holes in the veil of darkness. While I -a tall, breathless piece of candle, Yearned to illuminate the shadows upon her face. Until my very being was tortured by the metamorphosis- My wick raging, aching, melting me from height I once reached, Molding a prisoner in her dark room at the expense of her vision, Aiding the clumps -those rough imperfections altering my waxen skin... So is now the time to be afraid of wiping the hot waxen tears off my face? To contemplate embedding your fingerprints on my aching skin? Nevertheless, your hands still ache from the déjà vu of being burnt.