Soft Resistance

I was digging for a stamp in the kitchen drawer

among the twist-ties and the rusted screws.

I found the yellow lighter we used for the stove

back when the pilots were always making news.

The plastic casing is matted and dull,

covered in the divots of your nervous habit.

You chewed on it while the water came to a boil,

grabbing at the silence like you had to have it.

I held it up to the light over the sink

and saw the jagged map of where you’d been.

It’s a strange thing to keep, this bit of hollow flint,

with the ghost of your jaw pressed into the skin.