Wax

soft and malleable
in the warmth
of my hand
a heart not meant for molding

cool and hardened
from the shade
of a sunless sky
a brittle mess, too fragile to keep

fluid and running
in the heat
of my stare
wings not meant for flight

for the wax which forms you
never quite pliable enough
to run, or to fly, or to stay
rendering that which remains inconsistent