The Candle Knows My Name

The chair remembers.

It cradles my weight like a secret,

worn velvet pressing into my skin,

stained with the echoes of nights

I would rather forget.

The candle flickers, a weak messenger,

spilling its tiny light across the table,

pretending it can hold back the darkness

when we both know better.

The cup is warm in my hands,

but my fingers are cold.

The steam rises, twisting, curling,

like something whispering its last breath

before vanishing into the air.

The walls murmur in cracked paint and bruised brick,

words I am too tired to decipher.

They saw it happen—

they know what was said,

what was promised,

what was broken.

The silence is shiny,

slick with something unsaid,

like a blade held just below the skin,

waiting for the right moment to cut.

The cloud of trust has shattered.

It didn’t fade or dissolve,

it broke—

snapped, split,

like porcelain against stone,

like knuckles against a locked door

that will never open again.

And I am left here,

holding a cup of something bitter,

staring at a candle

that is trying so hard to pretend

it is enough.

I could blow it out.

Snuff it with a careless breath,

watch the room collapse into shadow.

But I don’t.

Because the chair remembers,

and the candle still calls my name,

soft and low,

like it believes I will answer.

And I am too tired to tell it

that I will not.