Mostly, 
 when the flame goes out 
 the candle is left.

Maybe, once upon, it flickered
 and burned bright.
 Its reflection casting life
  onto the screen as I write.
 Like the sun it shone wherever I was.

Perhaps it had its own soul?
 Not a soul we humans understand.
 Of a beauty that mesmerized,
 it was so grand.
 Not a composition of science, 
  oxygen and chemistry.
 A soul of burning mystery.

And then I left it alone, 
 ignored and forgot it.
 Or,
 I extinguished it 
  with a thoughtless breath.
 Cruel, you could say.
 It was so motile and alive.
 Blue, transparent, deep orange,
  dark and light.
 Shaped like a hand,
  as if reaching out to somewhere —
  to a place we can’t see.
 An x-dinguished gesture axed the flame.
 The candle's journey abruptly finished.

Were there conversations with the candle?
 Flaming or not?
 Dialog or monolog?

 Probably, but rarely.

 I told it my story
  and asked it to publish my wishes.
 I did, — but only in recent oratory.

I put my hopes into the flame.
 Then I watched it write,
  with the tip of its light,
  onto the backdrop of the eternal night.
 I blew it out,
  letting the white smoke add its credentials
  and reshape the message to the essentials.
 Quickly I lit it again,
  so the flame could rise from the dead
  and proceed
  with the next message instead.

My message was sent.
 Should I remain?
 Am I waiting in vain?
 Some of my candle is left,
  but what happened to its flame?