I think a box of matches is only a keepsake. Then I meet right person wrong time again at the apartment during the blackout.

I find you waiting inside the apartment during the blackout, exactly where memory puts you.

I feel your breath near my cheek as you turn toward me.

I touch a box of matches after your fingers leave it.

I hear my own pulse insist that I need timing to stop deciding for us.

I step closer when your phone lights with a photograph of another home.

I ask whether you expected to see me tonight.

I feel your breath change beside the unlit kitchen.

I feel the old shape of your hand around my cold fingers.

I learn again that touch can outlive permission.

I ask for the truth of right person wrong time without decoration.

I recognize the careful voice you use before hurting me.

I move a box of matches between our hands like a boundary.

I hear every reason and search for one choice.

I realize that our love is ready while our lives are not.

I let the truth land without bargaining.

I carry a box of matches toward the unlit kitchen without looking back.

I feel your hand close gently around my sleeve.

I turn close enough to feel your breath.

I watch you choose whether to close the remaining distance.

I reach for you inside the apartment during the blackout, but our love is ready while our lives are not.