Young Candles

When night wakes me to form little words dark and treacherous,

I can’t help but answer in shallow whispers,

In a voice long left, posthumous.

Then fever brushes and paints stories wild.

I yearn for those times of no thought,

no fret,

no night…

I truly believed that we had fooled tomorrow.

Days were forever and feet never chilled running through wet things and all our dreams.

Beaming abandon about every sound, every rock and every insignificant thing.

Those were the days of kings and chance.

Petrichor in the air breathed in greedily by small noses and hearts never smelled quite like that again once it starts.

“If only I knew then, this now.”

Yet, grateful is the remaining of me that ran those fields, when we were the expected as careless, the silly.

Young candles though, they hunger so to burn bright only to go cold.

We just didn’t know.

We just didn’t know.