There is something gorgeous
about the last night.
There is something so whimsical
in the stars
the clouds (moisture bouncing moon)
the cold—
that it’s difficult to imagine
a world without it.

There is a match.
You found it on the ground,
in the middle of the arctic,
when you were freezing
and shivering
and cowering
against the world over the horizon.

There is a lighter.
It was handed to you
by your heart,
which begged to keep you warm,
just so you could love another day
and it’s warm
and welcoming
so you lift it to the match.

you drop the flames.

they burned you.
it was instinctual.
it’s okay
that you don’t know
how your heart loves.

Because there is something terrifying
about the first break of day.
There is something so unsettling
in the light
the matchstick (curling in on itself)
the foreign warmth—
that it is difficult
to ever think
that you deserve it.