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I’ve tried all day to write something because once again I’ve fallen from the habit. Tonight I’ll post something old and try again tomorrow.
the length of a match
—
my life feels temporary tonight.
like a hand cupped around a match
sheltering it from the wind.
and in its brief flare,
I see the curves of your face,
your cigarette,
as you lean forward into the flame.
your hand, so still,
so unlike the restless hungry bird
it pretends to be
when it moves across my skin.
but we are not moving
and the room is dark.
© LeeAnn Heringer