I crouch to the candle,

my hands almost touching the flame,

but its heat washes past,

avoiding my sore, cold fingers.

I bear it no grudge.

Who am I to pass judgement

on a sprit as free as the fire.

The flame is company.

The flame is a friend.

Even though it denies my necessity,

the flame is a comfort yet.

The candle burns slowly.

I watch the melting wax

running down the side,

anxious to escape

the flickering feast.

I shudder.

I can see my breath.

At least I know I'm still alive,

unfortunately.

The wind howls beneath the door,

a thousand wolves fighting to gain entrance,

fighting to reach me.

I should open it.

I should give them what they want.

Me.

But, of course I don't.

As worthless as I feel,

as strong as the impulse is,

I don't.

I still, uselessly,

sit with my hands to the flame,

and wait.

I don't see the room about me,

it disappeared long ago.

Vanished along with my will.

My world is now the flame,

and my hands held before it.

I shudder again,

and I cough.

I can taste blood,

again.

The shadows whisper,

dark, sinister notions,

but I pay them no heed.

Their insights are no darker than my own.

I feel tired.

My eyes feel heavy.

I'd close them,

but I know that, in time,

I'll open them again,

to another morning,

to a dead candle.

The desire is too strong,

and I sleep,

but I was wrong.

I don't open them again.