trite

His eyes were waxy, like at any moment they would drip and burn down his cheeks, searing to the bone. Or maybe that was only because she'd been doing too many candles lately. There was that quote, the one her father always told her, something about candles burning on both ends. He'd been a candle maker as well. He'd taught her everything she knew, but not enough to know how to deal with this crisis, this person in front of her who demanded so much, who offered her everything she wanted, needed, all she had to do was give him a candle that would burn for him. Forever. There were stories about such candles, but she'd never meddled with myths before. Myths were what destroyed her father.