A waft of burnt out scent
reminds me
that death cometh.
I look into the flame
of the next
and see myself
frail and unsteadied;
by the slightest breeze.

I am reminded that you
chose to speak
in a still small voice
A tone that wouldn't
blow the life out of me
but would bend me
toward everlasting fire.

I:
your smouldering wick
you wouldn't snuff.
Guttering:
you've held
your breath in agony.
Inflamed:
you've soothed
with a sigh.

As I blow
out my lights this night
I wonder if
that smoke scent of death
is not just a reprieve
a rest for a new day
and chance
to be alight once more.