Oxidation

Candle flames dot the bookshelves and dresser tops, swaying golden cypress trees in a miniature graveyard. They burn bright and steady.

In an empty apartment with no drafts the flames stand tall and slim. Nothing disturbs their radiant beauty, except the silent passage of the sole occupant from room to room. The occupant may think himself a ghost, but the wavering of the flames belies his corporeality. The ghost sinks into the couch cushions while his hands run over a face temporarily forsaken by love. Red-rimmed eyes peer out from under sodden lids in a torpid effort to focus on the candles flanking the television across the room; the television sat blankly absorbing light and thought into the satiny black surface of the screen. It offered no counsel of its own.

The small suite of rooms seems a compact necropolis, bereft of life with a silence broken only by the breathy whirr of traffic. The glossy black sarcophagus of the refrigerator offered counterpoint, intermittently humming as if to announce the interred remains of yesterday’s leftovers. The ghost blinks slowly, mesmerized by the languid dance of light. The eyes of the ghost widen as he recognizes the emotion worming its way into his freezing heart.

He is jealous.

Jealous of the flame, gritting his ethereal teeth, near to weeping to know that the flame has purpose which it executes without doubt, regret or failing nerve. The ghost sets aside his glass and wipes his eyes, a moment too late to stop the brine of loss from spilling down his cheeks. The flames diffract and sparkle across retinas become prisms swallowed by waves.

The ghost wraps trembling arms over aching ribs with a deep sigh. Watching the pale gold dancer, he remembers when his heart burned bright and pure, enraptured by the runaway oxidation of the soul.

He remembers, and envies the votive its place on the shelf.