• oncour 22w

    It's nestled in the alcove, between a length of candle wick and two books, on the bottom shelf, across from the fauteuil, where the moonlight sits for a spell, weary from a long trip.

    It's resting safely in a niche, at the back of the blue velvet room, along the edge of the corridor, on the top floor, which, as of late, is kept cold----at a glacier notch on the analog thermostat.

    It's tucked away in another bower, beside itself; a broken piece of a broken piece, laid across the white oak floor, in the same dark space where it first blossomed from a light-bearing pip.

    I'm planted firmly in the garden, with the loose end of a candle wick in my right hand, and an unlit matchstick in the closed fist of my left, waiting to burn, while it's still nestled in the alcove, resting safely, tucked away, waiting to burn.