Phantom Flicker

Reaching for the mug,

the warm porcelain promising bad coffee.

My hand, without thinking,

twisted. Not for the handle.

My thumb pushed up, my index finger poised

to strike a flint.

The phantom weight

of cold metal, familiar, specific.

Then the muscle hitched, a ghost click

in the air, just for me. No flame.

Just the memory of how to open a Zippo,

the exact leverage.

How many years since the last one?

Ten? Twelve? The taste of chemical smoke

still there, a whisper on the tongue

I hadn't smoked in a dream, hadn't craved.

Just that mechanical grace.

A forgotten routine, a ritual.

My fingers, smarter than my brain,

remembering how to conjure fire from nothing.