Strangely deranged [7]

He's doing it again.
Can't handle something that strikingly beautiful.
Can't really grasp how extraordinary it is.
The fear of getting his filth on it makes him pull his hand back.
The dream is a dwindling candle and,
try as he might,
it will not burn ever long.

So he's attempting what he always resorts to in such situations.
He cuts off the flame.
He put's Newton's first law to work on his emotional state
and pushes.
Hoping against science,
that the friction of love can hold back the inertia.

But he never seems to move any further away.
He can't put distance between himself
and the beauty he fears he will sully.
He is the proverbial moth.
She; the mortal flame.
Fear of being burnt isn't a thought that bothers him for an instant.
Rather it is coming so close,
in his final moment,
that he might extinguish her embers.
Self destruction doesn't toy with his mind.
Mutually agreed doom
is a more worrisome prospect.

So he tries to pull off the same manoeuvre.
He tries to duck out of the favourable situation,
hoping to postpone the incoming misery.
Wishing to replace it with pain in the now,
knowing full well
the healing powers of time.

He understands that to save the candle
all he must do is put out the flame
before it burns any further.
Then wait.
In hope that another spark
on another day
will reignite her incandescent beauty.