Candles have eyes.
They look crookedly, not as people do:
not into the face, but into the shadow that stands behind it.
They do not question, no.
They only melt beside you, small and wakeful,
until you breathe the truth out
like something long kept under the tongue.
And they do not blink
when they catch sight of what we hide.
For the candles here are not for feasting.
They are set out when waiting grows too heavy.
When the dead are remembered.
When someone begs the darkness, softly,
not to take all that is left.
2026 speakingtomato
