(Oooh) ... (Oooh) ... (Oooh) ... I strike the match. Miss once. Then again. It flares on the third try, Tiny, stubborn, Like something I once believed in. The walls don’t watch, But I feel them leaning in. (Oooh) The air holds its breath. Even the dust seems undecided. There’s smoke, Or maybe just the weight Of what we didn’t say. Your eyes, Still and unreadable, Make me think of frozen clocks Ticking somewhere deep beneath a lake. (Oooh) It doesn’t roar. It coils. Soft and patient as dusk on bare skin. (Oooh) This isn’t fire. Not yet. But it knows the shape of one. A burn that’s learned How to wait. You touched me Like you were trying to remember how. Not rough. Not tender. Just… careful, Like brushing ash from a letter You couldn’t bring yourself to burn. The skin remembers What the mind deletes. I carry heat, The way some people carry A name they’ve stopped answering to. It keeps me Just this side of numb. Enough to feel, But not enough to change. Sometimes I wonder If I’m feeding it, Or if it’s feeding on me. (Oooh) It lingers Between the ribs, Beneath the obvious. It hums. (Oooh) Not a warning, Just a presence. A weight That doesn’t beg to be lifted. A fire that’s lost interest In escape. Still not a blaze. Still not gone. Still warm In the wrong places. A flicker That forgets to die. A slow burn That outlives the match. (Oooh) Still here. Still warm. Still unlit. (Oooh) But listening. (Oooh) Still listening.
