361: At the End of the Wick

"Hey," he says quietly

as she sits on his covers —

a spectre illuminated

by the flickering candle

in his hand.

Wax drips on his fingers,

covers his nails,

and takes scalding imprints

of the lines in his palm.

She sits, see-through and silent,

while he watches her and looks —

looks, looks, looks —

for something he can't see.

She's a ghost

he thinks he should know,

a ghost from a time

he can't remember.

She sits and she sits

and she waits,

waits for the candle

to burn down to the skin

and devour him whole.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.