With a deft flick of my wrist
my only match left
ignites,
sulfur stinging my nose
and making me wonder
why I even thought I needed
this in the first place.
You gave me matchbooks before you
left, and I burned them one by one
on my rooftop with you beside me,
fighting sleep,
until the night after your departure.
Tonight, I sit alone,
letting the flames lick the last match
until they burn my fingers.
Streams of unintelligible curses fly from
my mouth
and tears spring to my dry eyes.

I push the end of the last match
into my skin
and wait until morning
to remove it.