Standing there on a dusty sideboard
the scented candle, with a blackened wick
and a smell of apples and burnt wax
just as you left it when you snuffed its life
using your thumb and forefinger
moistened by your impassioned tongue.
The trail of smoke lasted for the time
it took you to switch on your ignition
and leave the stink of petrol
eddying in the wake of your getaway.
At first I’d thought the scented candle cute;
I couldn’t wait for sharing the joy of lighting it.
But in the process we also flared up
and the rotten apples of our lives
did not smell as sweet as the burning wax.
That was definitely a symbolic move on your part.
You could easily have left through the french windows
and sauntered across the garden,
stopping to admire the roses,
and turned to wave goodbye to the solitary flame.
But instead, you let the scented candle come between us,
denied its need to burn long and low
and cut it off even before the scent had filled the room
where previously we had found each other
and love, scented with a different perfume.
© Peter Young 2015