My fingers burn each time I touch the candlestick, hot wax
melting onto my knuckles the harder I clutch, my mind consumed with imaginary
visions of what might be allowed, to kiss or touch or taste, and the more I
see, the hotter the stick gets and the mounds of melted wax covers my hands,
each stroke evoking more until my whole digit is covered and still I think of
her, and imagine where this bright candle I hold might go, what it might reveal
of her dark places, and how good it might feel to fill her with the hot wax that
contains my fingers, this burning inside and out, this urgency for release,
this ever present need to make the whole world melt within my hands.
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