To the angel on the side of my room with a dim-lit candle in hand, that cradles the flame like a sweater. I say to you this: as you feed it bits and paper, so the fire won’t falter into smoke— is it not easier to snuff out light than choke on burning corpse?

The state you’ve found yourself in is like a sport, your halo fallen to your waist, circling in place like hula hoops— a perpetual state of motion with no real progress.

You hold on to the candle still, even as it emits a somber wave to give way to something colder. You remain present by the corner, on the sides of my room, with bits and paper in hand.

To the candle you whisper “wait,” as flickers fade to smoke. You unwrap yourself from the corpse laid cold, then turn to me with bits and paper in hand, so I may write the somber rays of the candle’s past.

As you cradle onto me like a sweater, I say to you this: do not let these words falter to smoke.