What Wakes Me

It's always three. Always.

The match sound cuts through

and my eyes open.

I'm already tense,

waiting for it before it happens.

That sharp strike—

wood on striker—

a small violent thing

in the dark apartment.

I can see the light bloom

under the bathroom door.

A thin orange line.

Then the smell comes,

smoke seeping through

like water finding cracks.

She doesn't know I'm awake.

She doesn't know I'm listening for it.

The deliberate way she does this—

like she's performing a ritual

for an audience of one.

The smoke is thicker now.

It reaches me.

It gets in my hair.

On my sheets.

In my mouth.

I should ask her to open the window.

I should say something.

But instead I just lie here

in the dark,

waiting for the next one.

Knowing there will be a next one.

Knowing I'll hear it.

Knowing I won't sleep.