With your shadow turned down low,
striking the match, remembering,
how easy dark gets put away.
With blues humming in the throat,
the flame whispering me an echo,
leaving only, scent of your went.
Of the fire we meant to keep,
like tallow creeping cognac,
down the glass, turning to ash.
Now a corpse of a ghost,
Dancing on the wick like a moth,
With your shadow turned down low.
