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The candle burned on the table.  It burned.  And I had no thought of coming back, no thought at all.  The candle burned on the table.  It burned.  And all the hurt and lies have gone up in the flame.  In the smoke and haze, they burned.

I should have said, you’re not in my thoughts.  I should have said, you’re not on my mind, but then last night I envisioned your looking-glass eyes in the wavering light and I knew it was a lie.

The candle burned on the table.  It burned.  And I have no thought at all for the here and now while the flame on the table burns.

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This micro – flash – fiction – poem is in response to lines in Dr. Zhivago’s Winter Night poem:  A candle burned on a table; a candle burned.

I would love to read in the comments others’ microfictions based on stories that they love.

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