Her Candle

The gift of strawberry and vanilla
is sweet, light as breath upon glass,
a fragrance that stays softly
but drifts like memory in the air.

The gift of peach with apricot
is warm, full, and ripened by desire,
a deeper note that stirs the senses,
yet it fades as twilight fades from day.

But her skin holds a scent beyond the jar,
a living perfume no hand can craft.
Her face is the light the flame seeks to imitate,
her spark the fire no wax can contain.

So I do not long for the candle she makes,
nor the perfumes she blends with care,
but for the burn that lives in her presence,
a flame that is wholly hers.

@okelododdychitchats