Strike

Dark.

Complete dark.

He reached.

I heard the box

open, the small rasp

of the match being drawn out.

Then the strike.

Sulfur on phosphorus.

The sound of a tiny violence.

Sharp. Deliberate.

A crack that cut

the silence.

I didn't know sound

could be that precise.

That aggressive.

The match flared.

A spark the size of a thought.

He brought it to the candle.

The wick caught.

But I was still hearing

that strike—

the moment before light,

the moment when something

small and chemical

breaks open.

I can still hear it

now.