Watching my candle burning -
Cream coloured, dripping slowly,
Gathering in soft, deep pools that
Cling like waves to the edge of the glass.
If I touched it now I would
Break its fragile skin
Hot wax moulding to my fingertip,
Sealing my skin so that I feel nothing.
Make it a perfect touch,
Flawless and foreign
As I roll it against my thumb.
Or I could wait just a moment
Until it cools just enough,
And then push my finger inside
So that it is surrounded by warmth.
I could gather it in my hands
And roll it between my palms,
Mould it until it is hard and smooth,
Flawless and foreign.
I could keep it until another day -
Look at it, study my creation
Until I am bored
And then melt it again,
Burn it until it is liquid.
Let it take shape into
Something that is not mine.