Fool

 

An open book has a spine

I light two tea candles and drop them into stenciled porcelain cups

I flick the switch under the two flanking candles, their decorative black wicks fooled 

me last night, so tonight one looks even 

more flammable with its fresh smudge.

She erupted in laughter when the smell of burning plastic seeped into the room and I

wondered if I really couldn't stand myself for being a fool. 

I didn't see it coming with the candles

their being too good to be true

like tones of voice, with their kinds of questions and comments

It changes all the time, my foolishness.

I'm waiting for her now and I hear that same laughter downstairs

shocking and strange.

She's so good at laughing that I sometimes don't know why I believe in it.

I'm wondering how I should be found by her tonight

Of course I'm someone that lights candles for myself

Maybe that's what this is all about 

tonight. 

I could be trying to write a poem, her company an afterthought

I could primarily be counting syllables, not estimating the time I have left 

to be anyone still when she

is around.

But, an open book has a spine.