First Flame

The strike—a harsh scratch

cutting through blackout silence,

a tiny flare that split the dark,

brief heat like a breath held too long.

I watched the wick catch, curl smoke

curl thin and quick,

smell sharp, like memory burning

and something close to hope.

The matchstick lay broken on cracked tile,

blackened tip jagged and tired,

its flame already gone but still

waiting to burn again.