Candles.

She's a drunken toast when
drunken most,
a satiable insect commingled in comatose,
who arose when wresting wicken wine
carpenting the wound,
clasping my eyes.
She knows to take
less than what gives,
setlling easily her forlorn smile,
charring, unharmed to wear.
Condesing to wood,
a humbling love affair,
might an eclair bake,
dipped in endless despair.

How things 'ave changed,
can we call it quits?
And then retire
to an earlier drill..
when you didn't
detest every morning's gin,
therewith proceeding,
elimating every pending need.
Your need to silence the beer,
mine to settle the receipts.
Not to say there was
any concern,
as back then, I for one
was comfortable with
your borrowed interest;
its only now that its wavering,
our stems soil with unrest.