The candle tapers to a point, flame licking out smoke, pushing away the dark, slow and steady, like an oar in deep water, hope flickering but reaching tall and slender, wax drips and puddles cold. We talk low, leaning against our chairs, brown warm wood, night falling like a heavy blanket but now the talk is good. Now the dark cares for secrets like the soil for seeds. Now, they can grow into truths.
The sky was grey, a bit grey, and the asphalt road was damp.
I sat on the upper deck of the bus, absent-mindedly watching the road.
This was a main road. Wide lanes.
But as the bus went further, the road tapered. Narrower. The buildings beside the roads were shorter. Less glass, more bricks.
And endes up with mostly trees. That was where I was getting off.
The candle tapers to a point, flame licking out smoke, pushing away the dark, slow and steady, like an oar in deep water, hope flickering but reaching tall and slender, wax drips and puddles cold. We talk low, leaning against our chairs, brown warm wood, night falling like a heavy blanket but now the talk is good. Now the dark cares for secrets like the soil for seeds. Now, they can grow into truths.