The air, heavy from our unspoken thoughts,
Is hardly fuel for the candle that burns.
We watch the fly climbing the window glass,
Unable to escape unless it turns.
We both feel the burden of our impasse.
You take the swatter; I let the fly out.
The fresh air wipes the wrinkles from my mind.
I want to stay outside in rain, and shout.
Today has no name, the times fall behind.
Now the candle is dead and gone is the rain
We turn into the fly that can’t get out
Unless we move away from our own pain.