Sketch...y

His precious candle lights up in the darkest of dark, brightest of day, like a glowing coal that ceases to be put out. He and his candle are inseparable. She sometimes wonders if his candle is more important than her. She is his girl, but the candle seems to take the place of her. Everyday, every chance he gets, no matter what the situation is, he goes off alone with the company of his candle to light it until there is nothing left but its fragrance lingering. He lights his candle to release the pain, to release the emotions, release the feeling, to escape for the moment as though he is some where else. Once finished with his candle, he goes back to her. He treats her like an angel until the candle beckons him to come back to it, to be lit, to be touched, to be held. Its call, its sound, its feel, rings in his mind, the feel of it is still on his fingers, the smell of it draws him in. Echoing in his mind, it is as though it was a siren, now its wailing, screeching through his mind, now its speaking to him in its soft sound, drawing him in. He leaves her for a moment for time alone with his candle, but what he isn't seeing is this love for his candle is tearing him and her apart, it pushes her away. She is moving on with him by her side. It makes it easier for her to move on because she sees everything that is falling apart with them and the love he has for the candle. It feels as though it is an affair he is having with his candle. In the past week he has held the candle more than he has her. His love for the candle is so strong, so immense. As though him and the candle were Romeo and Juliet, it would ultimately be the poison his lips would press against, touch, grace, the sword he unsheathes and holds to his chest and penetrates through his flesh. The love and passion for the candle would kill him. Maybe not soon, but it eventually would.