A solitary white votive candle sits on a small end table.
The first burst of the wick after you light it,
Like the poppers children play with on the 4th of July,
Spraying black shrapnel onto the white canvas of un-melted wax.
A puff of smoke twirls up and away from the candle.
The unmistakable acrid smell momentarily overpowering the subtle sweetness of the bee’s
The soft glow of the flame is unexpectedly bright when it’s the only light in the room.
It dances like a pair of lovers, dipping and swaying to music only it can hear.
Though the heat it produces is minimal, the warmth still manages to fill your body.
It too moves to the silent music, wading through your chest as it spills down to your fingertips
and into your toes.