I had a candle that smelled like your cologne, and I savored each minute of your brief return like I said I would.
The irony of its name is not escaped by me, “Love,” and now that I am without it.
Each time I lit its flame, I knew there would soon be an end, in some ways not unlike when you were actually here.
Did we always know that we would end? Did we truly plan for such a thing?
I should have thrown away that candle, saved myself the repetitive heartbreak.
How could I possibly have gotten rid of you?
The scent of your cologne is gone, the candle burned up. You are still gone, and the irony of it is not escaped by me.
“Love.”
A Series of Observations 