A candle's scent.
When the fire burns
Does the wax fly into the air,
And perhaps alight on my eye?
I ask it not as a question of science, but philosophy
As if the wax were not itself,
or its selfness extended beyond the physical world.
As if it were a question that could not be proven or falsified,
But only pondered,
Wondered about with a faint loveliness of belief
Unable to answer “yes” or no”,
But only a resolved, though somewhat despondent, “I don’t know”
With perhaps some certainty
But certainty that exists apart from proof or knowledge.
She writes with a poetry not her own
My day lends poetry to her words
And gives more meaning and flow than she has power to make
And yet I admire her for it
As if somehow she were to blame, or be praised for how my mind projected her.
Response in anything other than likeminded poetry would seem false to me
But such poetry written would be out of place to her
For I am not writing to her, but my idea of her
But the real her must endure what I say to some Other.