Blackened Candlewick

Blackened candlewick, winter-scented wax,

where did the years escape to?

They abscond with the familiar—everything I recognize.

I'm not the person I was, even months ago.

I don't recognize my younger self in photos,

unwrinkled, not yet weary, still ignorant.

There is no happy medium between youth and age.

Only trade-offs. Fuel for the flame. I'm tired.

I neglect to flip the lights on as hours pass. My day is almost done.

Silver hairs glimmer, spiderwebs catching candlelight.

This candle, too, will expire soon, and where will that leave me?

Besides in the dark, which, I assume, is where I started.