You are a sturdy candle. Melted wax in a glass jar. I am a smaller, more dangerous tea light, not prone to shatter, but capable of faster fire. Some days your light does not shine on me; the wick refuses to twist and melt hot wax in my direction. Those days my pint sized flame has trouble shining on anything at all My tea filled brain cannot comprehend why a small cockeyed candle, such as myself, is even worthy of being perched on an off white windowsill next to a still burning, brighter candle. Besides, when the barriers of stained glass, for you, and cheap tin, for me, are cut and peeled off, your wax figure is clearer than mine. The hands that shaped your pliable body spent more time rounding your edges, making your melting face smooth again, your expressions calm and unpredictable. Your mind is sharp, honey bee words are smooth and silky, all natural; everyone loves a candle like you. A wax mannequin so flawed that you are undeniably sublime. My flower figure slinks behind, leaving waxy marks for footprints and hints of lavender for breath. The hands that had begun to shape me fell asleep and left my wax dripping and unfinished, only to be molded by the unforgiving minds of others I will meet along the way. I look up to your mesmerizing figure and tape record your movements, so that later, I can stumble over understanding the right steps. You have whispered to me in fiery words, during early morning dances across sleepy wooden floors, that my roughly cut wax figure is perfect. And I have whispered back that perfection can only be attained by you, the one who intoxicatingly exudes a phosphorescent glow that engulfs everything nearby and swallows self pity whole. Your warm wax body moves closer to mine and your flawless lips have no reply.¬¬¬