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She burns like the flames at the tip of the wick
He is like the wax of that same candlestick

Cool and solid, standing firm and tall
He evaporates as she creates a cloud above it all

Her smoke rising from the flame of the stick
She burns further down that same wick

He’s crying, he’s trying, he turns into a mess
His wax burns, making a puddle out of the stress

The wick continues to burn too far down
Causing her flame to shrink and drown

Not much is left of what was a wax stick
Nor is there a lot of that same wick

He tumbles, and bubbles running down the holder
As he reaches his puddle, he begins to grow colder

But her fire burns on and on without regret
Lying in his puddle without a plan set

She’s still at the top with her flame as high
Still burning at the wick, yet the end is nigh

Just a drop of the wax is left of their stick
She wonders what went wrong with that very wick

She didn’t realize that her fire burned, creating ash
Nor did she see that he yearned and did not dash

He slid further down and down into his own undoing
He gave her all he had not knowing it’s a misdoing

A love, a life, a wife, a bride
He pictured himself next to that lie

He was soft and malleable and wanted her quick!
Ever changing his form, there was ne’er enough wick.