Intricacies of this scene are backlit by the one flickering candle. Sandalwood. The windows are closed, and it is an oven in the house. But we're outside. Me and her. And the candle. Just a tawny, yellowish taper. Dinner party length, almost gone. Almost. When than damned strong flame finally snuffs out, I can release my attention from the dark shadows and sounds of the nearby stand of snow thick forest. The snow, so cold. Then, at the death of the flame, I can stop focusing on the bright full moon, and the norther cold, and the control, control. I can let go. I can focus on her glowing eyes, her full-moon luminous skin, pale green in the snow illuminated beneath the Aurora Borealis, though I could be hallucinating.

When that candle takes its last gasp, I can let go.

It's been hours, hours of waiting for immolation, suffocation, extinction of a single flickering flame. Soon though, I'l let go.

I smile down at her wide open eyes. She hasn't blinked or moved in such a long time. But soon, soon, I will let go, I will begin to let go.

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