The Language of Wax and Shadows

The candles bleed their slow, crimson sorrow,

melting secrets onto the table’s blackened skin.

Their tune is a whisper, a flickering hymn,

a message scrawled in curling smoke

for those who dare to listen.

I listen.

But the words are all wrong.

Mangled syllables of doubt,

syllables that slither into my veins,

that coil around my ribs,

tightening, tightening.

I feel them watching—

their eyes, their lips, their hands,

moving just beyond the edge of sight.

The walls hum with their silence,

their unspoken accusations staining the air

like oil, thick and seeping.

Passion once lived here,

once wrapped itself around me

like velvet, like breath,

but now it is a corpse,

rotting beneath the weight of suspicion.

The lavender wilts on the table,

petals curling inward,

as if they too know

that love can turn rancid,

that sparks do not always lead to fire—

sometimes, they only burn holes

through all that is good.

The chair in the corner shifts,

its leather sighing under unseen weight.

I do not turn around.

I already know

what I will not see.

I reach for the candle’s edge,

drag my fingers through the softened wax.

It molds around me, pliant, obedient,

as if it understands,

as if it too has been waiting

for a hand to shape it,

to give it meaning.

But the message is clear.

The tune is unbroken.

They are here.

They have always been here.

And the shadows lean in closer,

smiling.