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?