So the candle is burning

once again,

it is burning all the way

down to its feet, down

into its sea of warm,

liquid wax, once



There’s a tiny mirror.

It looks like a flower,

made of four

blue petals

and a reflecting,

dirty surface

I forgot, I

did forget it.


So the candle

keeps on burning

to the shells, ‘til the

fire burns out of ‘em

and I watch, I see,

I finally take

a picture

of nobody but it,

neither me, nor myself,

nor you, just it, and ‘em:

the lake, the walls of

wax, the mirror, the shells.


Nothing else but the flame and its

reflection in the darkness of something

I forgot but now found and then clearly

pictured in the memories I now remember

I’ve always had of it, just a gift I received

many Xmases ago from a flatmate’s friend,

that’s all. A blue flower made of glass

I just took out of  the flame

that was making it black

in a puddle of wax.


I’ve been looking for

a moment of peace by the sea

and into the sea of ink I’ve got

in my thoughts today, but all

I’ve got then was a sunny day
filled with anxiety and others’

need to talk and laugh and say

something on me, to me,

making fun of me like

kids, sometimes not

to me,  sometimes rather

see me leaving, see me

crying, see me going

down on my own way

all the way through

the idea of no more

compromises or

patience or



The candle is burning, still.

The quietness of the night is

giving back to me something

I thought I lost, like a book

and a picture I cannot

find anywhere



the respect

that silence can

recompose in its whole

calmness into the sound

of the night where I find

my time.


The flame has been

becoming more than one,

not many, just a few, they

are the shells into the bowl

on a wooden tray filled with

colourful wax and that’s

where my thoughts

are not lost now,

there, fixing

the sensitive

layers of

my pain,

my tears,

my silence,

my fears, my

pouts, my grouches

my rage against whatever’s

unfair and cruel and vicious.


The world is spinning

slowly tonight

in my mind

and the fire

is still alive.


I can’t hear him calling.

I couldn’t answer  his pressure.

I won’t be there when he’ll be

thinking once again “I hope to be you”

instead of hoping to be with me by

pretending my whole, entire

attention, wanting to

hear my voice, see

my face, my body,

since I was no-


but me

and that memory

of Vik in between

us, and you see,

my time is burning

tonight, as it is, not

just me.


I’m sorry we couldn’t

communicate just because

communication is not what

some people seek… I’ve tried,

I did swallow the poison hidden

into the translation of some kind

words and what I’ve found was

a surface of pain that

didn’t want to listen

didn’t want to say

or talk but push,

just push and



very hard

my whole connection

into the pretension, the

tension of a fear

and a hope, of a

step toward

an image of


stuck into

some déjà vu that

hurt pretty badly.


My candle is burning

once again to its

bottom with no

end,  not yet and I

clearly see how

an error can become a

mistake and the space

of all nights finally can

make it comfortable

in the way in which

time and patience

can dissolve it

slowly into

a puddle

a lake

a sea


an ocean of

nothing but black

on some blank page

into the irregularity

of a thorny feeling of

care and judgment

and a graceful

concept of