I burn vanilla-scented candles to smoke the smell of you out of my walls.

There's clearly something lingering here and it's ever dangling your image before my eyes,
frustrating me with a smile I'd prefer no longer bother me.
You are an image burned into my retinas;
but, unlike my candlelight,
your image doesn't flicker,
and memories of the heat of your touch offer me no moments of relief.

You never liked the smell of vanilla much, so here I am,
smoking whatever's left of you

out.