Not a bat of the lashes or a daisy from the meadow.

I give you a candle.
It is a luminous wax finger upon a plate of brass.
It promises a clement glitter
like the flickering resemblance of splendor.

Here. It will enliven your dusty bedchamber
like a tinderbox.
It will make your life
a flame ignited by compassion.

I am trying to be congenial.

Not a snug slipper or a glimmering necklace.

I give you a candle.
Its chips of melted skin will stain your hands,
adhesive and febrile
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its radiant gleam will ignite the monotonous beating of your heart,
if you like.
Ensuing.
Its scent will cling to your clothes,
cling to your being.