In my hand I hold this blue-tipped match
As my head rests on my arm
And my lashes on my cheek
In that corner or these stone and linen walls
I have a pink candle lit
I know that that little flame is dangerous there
Left unattended as I sleep
I know I will be scolded for my supposed irresponsibility
So I sleep lightly
Ready to extinguish the little warmth left in this musty room
But I wait with this strike-anywhere match
Knowing that I would want it lit again.
