The Burning Orange Night

When I think a soft voice echoes back,

High and warm to sing of cinnamon and salt, 

Of rarities and wonders so common to the palate,

I see the candle slide into a liquid state,

Her silent glow dims before the sunrise,

They cannot be together, and the voice’s melody

Once high and true has fallen low and gritty,

It murmurs without form, but I've misplaced attention,

To find it quiet until this moment.

My candle dies, my song fades, and 

In the awakening of the day change shimmers into existence,

The light smell of oranges mixes with the morning breeze,

Carried off they are all memories now, to forget or to remember.

Seared instantly into the mind for bitter nostalgia,

To relive when such a candle beckons or night holds me still so long,

Allowed to escape? No fruit fly weeps for yesterday knowing that to have

Known is never enough. Do you ever wonder why we live for such fragile scenes?

They break and bend for time leaving but the waft of dull ache and oranges. 

Author's Note

I believe I'm walking the thin line here between poetry and prose. Let me have it.