You sat there still and unmoving. I saw no signs of a heartbeat but through the piece of ivory colored string protruding from your head I could sense life buried in your lifeless outer shell. I touched you and your body was hard yet delicate as my fingers ran along your deep red crayon surface, scraping some of your skin as my nails became curious. I examined you more carefully and noticed that your square base revealed your identity; red, apple cinnamon, $5.99, made in Taiwan. Even though your label was meant to eliminate any unknown wonders, you still held a mysteriousness that captivated me. Perhaps it was your flames that intoxicated me as they danced a sensual tango, exuding your scent, a mix of spicy sweet. Or maybe it was the apple design etched into your side; it was meant to make you more beautiful but I thought you were elegant without it. I placed you on my window sill with a black porcelain plate beneath you to catch your sweat as it slid down your body and became solid among your feet. I always thought of it as a foundation and used it as such so you would always remain strong. Eventually, the dance of your flame ended and you became too meek to entertain my lonely nights any longer. Nevertheless, I'll never forget the way you used to dance