Swipe Left On Perfection

I set two candles side by side,
wrapped a cord around each at the same level—
two matching bands, touching but with a felt tension tied to them—
I drew three oracle cards and accepted my fate: reminders to continue the transformation,
to create energy, to let the work move.

I lit them at the same time, a clean beginning. And began to lean in.

My inner child, watched patiently, similarly like waiting for baked cookies to finish to completion, but knows they cannot have their closure til after dinner.

His burned faster—bright, almost jubilant to cut to the chase—
until the wax collapsed into a quick puddle
that cupped and protected the cord.
Mine kept an even breath, steady and upright,
and when his wick slowed under its own shield,
my flame caught up.

The cords caught together in one flash—
a shared ignition—
and the smoke rose thick enough
to set off the smoke detector, a sharp voice
in the middle of the undoing.

On my side, the cord melted away from his,
slid down, and found the plastic cradle
that held the ritual. It scorched that edge
a thin ring of ember,
until it stretched, thinned, and quietly gave out.

On his side, the cord burned, cutting free from itself. It was caught lower, onto itself,
snagging the wax, flaring, pausing—
then flaring again.
A third try crowned bright, then surrendered.

My candle stood tall, burning at an equal rate,
holding its shape with a calm glow.

His burned furious until it was only a puddle,
the wick still reaching,
then finally, it gave up its fight.

Indirect communication.
Nothing left of his candle.

In the hush after, the room felt open. The air became breathable again with the life of an open window.
The cord’s ritual, a symbolic show of a current dynamic at play.
Light stayed light.

What does not repair will fall away.

My candle can be relit, with opportunities to be burned again, soft and gentle without fear of melting the plastic next time.