Flickered Flame

I don't dare look for poems in the flickering flames of a burning candle

nor at the trinity dancing against the brush of airflow, avoiding collapse.

I wouldn't dare look there where the smidge of light shines just enough to trace your face, with its embers between my fingers, until its brunt heat removes the outline of its unique print.

I blew out the candle; I can't see you but I've memorized your lips and how they curve like the edge of the wick bent over.

There isn't a poem there.