A string of tea lights line the mantel
Flames dance and lick the air
Their shadows weave and waver along the wall.
She cups her hand behind each candle
Like a lover around the nape, before a kiss
One by one she blows, extinguishing them all.
One light remains, a bluish glow
Illuminating a corner of the room
Her computer idle, waiting one half hour past his midnight call.
She dumps her tea, it too grew cold
A yawn, a sigh, but no tear and she powers down for bed
Forgoes the nightly rituals, and up the stairs she crawls
To slumber now and hope of dreams of the distant man who wanders
in and out of her mind and heart, with inconsistent words he sometimes squanders.
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