I lit a candle yesterday. It was an apple scented, bought from the Trader Joes that was under the first apartment I had lived in. It was in a round, metal can – the edges were smooth, the cap was flat and the label was peeling a bit. At first I had to pry to get it open. Since then, I haven’t closed it.

I lit the candle because I wanted to see fire. I was roasting marshmallows the other day – bored in this banal state that my family had been caught in – above the stove. The cube had caught on fire, warm hues blending upwards. I looked in wonder at the whispering flame, because I have been in this two bedroom one bath prison for so many months that perhaps anything would be interesting.

Since the gloom of night surrounded me, the glow from the lighter was already bright enough to be imprinted into my corneas every time I blinked. I pressed it to the wick until the sound of fshh reached my eardrums like a shower of rain, until the small thread peeking out of wax dotted with dust ignited into warm oranges.

When the candle was melted into nothing but apple scented liquid, I put the flame out with a breath. One blow and the brightness was draining to dark – that’s when I discovered smoke is prettier than the flame.

Gray wisps floated up towards the ceiling, drifting through the air slowly, tilting slightly to follow the breeze in the room. In a trance, I caged my bent fingers over the top of the candle and watched it trickle between my knuckles, over my fingers, under my cut nails. It was a thick smell as well – a thick smell from something I couldn’t even hold.