It catches in my throat

I strike a match against the box but

It won’t catch

So I strike again,

And again, and again, and again

Disgruntled in the dull glow of the nightlight

Steam swells around me like smoke, water gushing out of the faucet and filling the tub

I discard the charred matchsticks in the bin

One on top of another on top of another

On top of tissue, on top of floss, on top of used q-tips

I’ve wasted so many.

Accumulation is the evidence of my failure

I give up without

Ever lighting the candle

No wax pool forming, no wish when I blow out the flame

What would I even wish for?

I have one of your lighters, still, the one with the watermelon print

From a night last fall when we smoked on my front steps

Sitting close, knees pulled in, barely touching – but touching

One cigarette after another, after another

Sick to my stomach from all the nicotine but agreeing to one more because

Sure, why not

So we pass another back and forth and back and forth,

Your lips, my lips

Yours again, mine again

You say hi to everyone who passes by

I don’t even notice them

I want to let it out, right then, right there

The words in my mind that have caught like a spark in dry brush

All consuming, engulfing me, choking me in the fumes

Every time I try to say it,

It catches in my throat

Imagining everything we’ve so precariously propped up between us suddenly ablaze

And me, left sifting ashes through my fingers

Without an urn on the mantle to mourn

So I keep the words in,

And now an arroyo winds through my mind

Barren curves, deserted twists, winding on and on and on

I feel the words in my throat, still, while trailing down the hallway back to my bedroom

Avoiding the creaks in the floorboards

I know exactly where your lighter is:

Left nightstand, in the back, mixed in with the palo santo and the dead weed pens

I turn the lighter over in my palm, imagining it in your hand, or in your pocket, or in your room

Back in the bathroom, the matchsticks taunt me from the trash

How many times I tried unsuccessfully to strike a match

How many times I tried unsuccessfully to tell you how I feel

So I leave your lighter on the counter, atop my folded pajamas, beside the unlit candle

And I sink into the bath

It catches in my throat

I strike a match against the box but

It won’t catch

So I strike again,

And again, and again, and again

Disgruntled in the dull glow of the nightlight

Steam swells around me like smoke, water gushing out of the faucet and filling the tub

I discard the charred matchsticks in the bin

One on top of another on top of another

On top of tissue, on top of floss, on top of used q-tips

I’ve wasted so many.

Accumulation is the evidence of my failure

I give up without

Ever lighting the candle

No wax pool forming, no wish when I blow out the flame

What would I even wish for?

I have one of your lighters, still, the one with the watermelon print

From a night last fall when we smoked on my front steps

Sitting close, knees pulled in, barely touching – but touching

One cigarette after another, after another

Sick to my stomach from all the nicotine but agreeing to one more because

Sure, why not

So we pass another back and forth and back and forth,

Your lips, my lips

Yours again, mine again

You say hi to everyone who passes by

I don’t even notice them

I want to let it out, right then, right there

The words in my mind that have caught like a spark in dry brush

All consuming, engulfing me, choking me in the fumes

Every time I try to say it,

It catches in my throat

Imagining everything we’ve so precariously propped up between us suddenly ablaze

And me, left sifting ashes through my fingers

Without an urn on the mantle to mourn

So I keep the words in,

And now an arroyo winds through my mind

Barren curves, deserted twists, winding on and on and on

I feel the words in my throat, still, while trailing down the hallway back to my bedroom

Avoiding the creaks in the floorboards

I know exactly where your lighter is:

Left nightstand, in the back, mixed in with the palo santo and the dead weed pens

I turn the lighter over in my palm, imagining it in your hand, or in your pocket, or in your room

Back in the bathroom, the matchsticks taunt me from the trash

How many times I tried unsuccessfully to strike a match

How many times I tried unsuccessfully to tell you how I feel

So I leave your lighter on the counter, atop my folded pajamas, beside the unlit candle

And I sink into the bath