Grenade-bottle candle

when October seeps in at the fringes there is no remorse for it

for it was in the shadowy haze of the kitchen where their love was forged

and the long nights of winter hold a kind of mysticism; evoking

strings of blue wax dripping slowly down the curves of their grenade-bottle

and solidifying,

layer upon layer upon layer. And of

wide, attentive, cautious eyes and secrets told and

dreams born and

heady, shy kisses;

of untold adoration; a crackling current of

promise and infinite possibility;

of a poignant reticence with the intoxicating

sense that if she were to succumb,

it would be

everything.

She was right. -

Laid in those nights, the foundations of a

monolith:

intimidating, imposing and impossibly beautiful