Wax tears

I like crying for things I like,
I love being proud of things I did.
I fear forgetting such an easy fact:
places I’ve been make me what I am.

Hope makes it sense too:
your smell in my pillow gap
and growing me from you,
as my parents did from themselves.

As I think more on you
I know that fearness of forgetting
will never punish me.

So bring a bright candle to my eyes
showing them yours, making the moment
one of those which I will cry for.