I read by lamp light.
Sometimes, I wish it were a candle,
that you had lit for me.
I could watch the wax melt,
for hours.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A simple, soothing sound.
A heartbeat you had left behind.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I would reach out,
and touch the flame.
Let it burn the skin of my palm.
A brand.
I would treasure the scar forever.
Your name burnt into my hand.
My fingers would run over the pale skin,
the red edges,
the pink bit that is too fleshy.
It would hurt, I’m sure.
But you would kiss it better.
I’m sure.
Your fingerprint clings to the corner.
I want to imprint it in my memory.
This is you.
On my book.
In my hand.
A piece of you I can never lose.
Like the scar on my palm
That has your name hidden in it.
The candle which drips wax
Onto my desk.
The fingerprint that clings
To the corner of the page.