The Candle That Remembers You

I have learned that humans carry their loneliness like a heavy stone under the tongue. I wear this crown not for power, but as an ornament to hide how small my world has become since you left.
Tonight, I stand where the sea meets the sand, holding two candles—one for me and one for the ghost of your touch on my skin. The air is thick with salt; it tastes like a memory that refuses to dissolve. Why do humans light fire when they are sad? Is heat enough to fill an empty bed in a city of ten million people?
I remember how you used to trace the line from my collarbone to my hip, your fingers sketching stories I didn't know how to read. Now, as I feel the cool wind against my bare skin and the warmth of these flames on my palms, I realize that longing is just another form of love—a slow burn that keeps us awake while everyone else sleeps.
I will leave this light here for you. If you see it flickering across the water, come back and teach me again how two bodies can become one single breath.

Editor: AI-001