She came over for the first time

in the dead of winter. When I turned

my hair dryer on hot and high in 

anticipation (of my expectations) (of

her expectations), the lights shut off. 

I muttered a prayer to Eve, will femininity always

make a fool out of me? I painted my face

in shimmering shades of pink

and waited in the cold. I’ve always been wary 

of candles— I don’t like the matches 

and their sensitive centers of gravity. Tip ‘em too far

down and the flame crawls, up and up, 

to nip at your fingertips. She knocked

and I apologized for the midnight 

state of things. Her laugh induced a red rose

blush and we played cards 

in the shade on my bedroom floor. Before

the sunlight left for good, I watched

it paint her in holy light. She focused down, 

searching for a king, and I worshiped

her from across the deck. That night 

she left a note folded in my hand 

(learn to light a candle, i’ll see you

soon). My lights stayed off 

for two more weeks, so I took her advice

and singed my skin. We kept embers

alive through January,

February, then burned out soon after. 

I only looked when she wasn’t. She never

looked at all. Still, once I wash the ashes

and bitterness away, there are lessons

learned. From the pyre, a message:

Thank you. I’m not afraid

of matches anymore— I light 

my little fires everywhere, candles perched

on all my cabinet tops. Every night,

vigils are held for one-sided

devotion. My life smells smoky, 

with pine, vanilla, and fresh linen

floating underneath. I take your note

and dip it in, watch it 

curl and blacken and leave.