Wax

Fifteen

A/N: Hello Beans! 'Tis a 4.7k word chapter, written in less than four hours! Le gasp! Sorcery!!! Hehe. I read some of the comments in the last chapter anxious about the development of SeeSaw and saw in that anxiety a bit of me when I look back at my relationships with human beings. 

More often than so, we hope for a smooth healing; a sailing of things that encompass the magic of a reunion. I have realized that things do not work that way; but at the same time, that is what makes the SeeSaw so attractive. It does not move in a linear manner. It is an up and a down. 

Enjoy!

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It would always start with a candle.

The flame; it would be still and unmoving like before and the core of it all, a deep, full-bodied warmth that could be felt just by staring at its gaze. Almost hypnotic. In those eyes, there is a darkness that necessitates the burning of a flame. Without it, the room within was cold and alone.

I would find myself in that room. Someone had put the candle out and I had come to find the matches. Sometimes, they appear in my hands. Sometimes, they do not. When they do, I strike them and they light up the room but the candle—wick, wax and all—it would remain in the dark. Every time, I search. Every time, I fail.

I call out to the candle. It is silent. It does not want to be lit.

Tonight, I apologized. I did not know why. Then, I begin to wake. Between the waking and the dream, it came to me; the reason for my apology and guilt.

I was the one who had put the candle out in the first place.

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[Vanilla]

It always bothers me how I somehow feel surprised to find the space beside me empty when I wake. Furnished apartments like the one I lived in were usually the height of independent living for singles in their early twenties. For it to come with a king-sized bed was unnecessary expenditure. Those were the first of two-a.m. thoughts in the first couple of days I'd settled into London.

Two weeks into my stay, I'd expected a change of heart with regard to the king-sized. There was none. Furniture like these had the hidden ability to further a sense of loneliness. Of being apart from the warmth.

My gaze rested on the view of the city outside. Still dark. I glanced at the clock. Four in the morning.

There was something on the edge of my mind; remnants of the dream I was having that resembled some form of distant warmth. Yet, my fingertips and toes betrayed an icy coldness. Chill to touch.

I had the misfortune of a mind that was acutely awake at a time like this, occupied by the strangest taste and image of Medjool dates as though the active synapses had somehow fired a longing for the deep, cloying sweetness.

Four a.m. was a kind of critical. It is in the moment before the break of dawn; the instance I find myself most prone to the undiscovered peaking of thought and mind. A golden time.