I toasted tonight in the dark to a candle. I clinked the glass, cold wine against warm fire. Where do I go from here? Do I tell you about the fire? About how the candle was almost burnt out; hot, liquid shimmering in a dangerous light. I’ve written about nearly burnt out candles for a long time. The first poem I ever wrote involved one of those. It was about societal cannibalism. A candle burning low is so symbolic. The contrast is my wine. Cheap, and from a grocery store that gouges the prices out through customer’s eyes, the wine was pink. A pale reflection of red. Diluted, dainty, faint. It’s cold because it tastes better that way. It’s too sweet to be room temperature, and not sweet enough to allow itself to be really cold. It’s a stupid wine, can’t make up its mind. I drink it because it’s all I have. That and the chocolate I bought. Hearshys with almonds. I had a line of movies set up to watch tonight by the light of this candle. All with shirtless, gorgeous, ripped men. It was to be a lovely night with warmth, outside and in, flowing through my veins, calming my mind. I started it off hardcore, taking my antidepressants with a swig of this symbolic wine. Then I warmed up, lit the cnadles and turned on Smallville. Not at all what I was planning. These things never do go as planned. I am drinking and taking melatonin so that I can fall asleep before my sister gets home from her date with her boyfriend. She keeps me up and then I’ll never get to my workout in time. If I can make myself do it. About the fire though, I can’t remember what I was going to tell you about it. I think I was asking where it was all going. The point is, I was alone and if I wanted to make it worse, I’d say I was taking drugs and drinking alcohol. And playing with fire. I was also losing my mind because I toasted to the fire, clinking my glass to it. But that sounds ridiculous. Why tell a stupid, depressing story, when instead I can say I had pink wine with chocolate while watching some Tom Welling. Much better. Happy Valentines Day.