A half-burnt candle rests on my desk,
a sentence unfinished,
a thought paused in the middle of breath.
One side remembers fire
the fever of flame,
its restless dance,
its defiance of darkness.
Melted wax leans like folded time,
a memory hardened into shape.
The other side waits, untouched,
a white horizon unmarked,
a promise still sealed in silence.
I trace its uneven edge and ask:
do we ever burn completely?
Or do we all live like this-
half flame, half silence,
half lived, half waiting.
(This is just short of 100 words, but it’s exactly what I wanted to express and I really do not want to add more to it, hope that’s okay🫶🏻)
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