socially awkward.

When I think of goodbyes, I think of airports, and sometimes, candles.

awarewolves:

Here is a simple act of disappearance: the dying flicker of a flame atop a melting white candle. It is the only illumination from the dark, unlit room. When it dies, the act of disappearance is complete. It takes two minutes and thirty-three seconds for it to vanish into the blanket of the cold evening air.

It also takes two minutes and thirty-three seconds to walk away from my bedroom, to the door leading towards the staircase, which leads to the bottom floor of this apartment, and towards the exit that leads to the street walkways. Here is another act of disappearance: in the middle of the night, you in your nightdress, leaving. The present hour of the night is as quiet as an empty theater, and your footsteps are precise like a ballerina’s tiptoeing.

When I wake up in the morning, I feel as if I am a dismantled candle which has lost its sine qua non: the tiny dancing ember, you.