A feeling is faxed, and she receives my stiff attention.
Then a wave as old as time itself surges onto my shores and to my soul it beckons.
A wick is waxed, and the sexes are no longer separate.
So, what eons of evolution have undone is reformed in seconds.
When first lit, the wick flares,
Flickering uncontrollably in the newness of its birth.
After, the flame settles in, consuming the candle,
But shedding constant light which is its worth.
It has shrunk in size, but it’s no less of a prize.
The fire subsides; her tide ebbs away.
But passion is conserved, through love, it’s preserved
As a rite to be observed on another holy day.