smothered

I always thought it would go out suddenly,

like a candle,

with only a whisper of smoke

and black tipped wicks

to serve as a reminder that it was lit.

But I watched the flame flicker,

slowly shrinking

as it started to choke

from the lack of air

or the dwindling fuel.

Then I watched it reignite itself again somehow,

with only a warm coal or two

underneath all the ash

and blacken wood,

and it would burn as brightly as did before,

only for a moment,

before it went back to its slow decline.

Again and again,

the cycle continued (viciously),

but the brighter moments

became shorter,

and the time between nearly out

and burning bright

became longer and longer

until the very end.

And as much as I loved the warmth of the fire

staying a little longer,

a part me of wishes

it went out like a candle.