Light Me a Candle

He’s dead.

Not in the sense that he no longer breathes but by way of tragedy. He’s the only one left. He holds a secret, in the most unlikely of places, to the most unlikely of things. The vessel of flesh has its purpose.

Chairs dance and burners ignite. Candles flicker without consent. The flame color is elemental. Blue. People don’t see you when you don’t exist. Sometimes I think I’m dead too.

He doesn’t believe, not in the sense that I do. Not in a way that counts. A reason for everything he says. But all things are not rational. Science can’t trump faith. It’s never going to happen. He’s a stubborn man. I’m learning that I’m a stubborn woman.

And the rotters continue to disintegrate.

Buried mysteries, buried, not dead. Tokens, symbols of going against the white. Elaborate schemes.

I now hold within me knowledge shared. But who will I tell? The relieving of churning emotions, a chaotic cauldron of bubbling burdens that will never simply simmer.

Maybe this is why we have been brought together. A savior of sorts. A ghost that walks among men. A cure to what ails them.

Fire took a breath. Not Blue, but orange, and I was staring at it.

It’s not the cards, but me. Yes, I have heard it all before, the argument not new. And the whispers were growing louder. Times like these I think I might be insane. I wanted to read for him. They wanted to tell him something. He refused. He doesn’t believe. The candle would not sway.

Predestined power. We both have it, just in different ways. Tampered with. Destiny always delivers me into the presence of abnormal. And as fortunes servant, I always go willingly.

Everything is not cut from the cloth of rational thought. If it cannot be seen or measured, does it exist?

A transfer of touch, a fluttering of lash.
Tangible anger that reeked around me.
A clandestine coldness that forced a shiver from me.
Dominating images that played like moving pictures behind my eyelids.
Emotional pain.
Perceptive illusions.
Weakness, visibly and physically draining downwards, a puddle of flesh and bone beneath wrappings of blue.
Spilled cards.

A quick yielding kiss to cheek. Whispers. Passive Pleas. One mouth dragging over another. A promise to help.

I will read for him.

The afflicted are nameless.