The Last Beauty

When the candle is extinguished
the last wisp belongs to me.
The little ghost leaving the candle.
The sun falling into the horizon.
The aftermath of light that stays.
When lips release their touch
and my heart falls in.
My hand that falls from its goodby.
Colors the soul can see.
Poetry that lives between its lines.
Where the music goes
when the string is still.
This is where my life stops and starts.
Where a glance means more
than incandescent stare.
Where words escape to higher vocabulary,
and beauty follows me with eyes
when my back is turned.