You use a white BIC
to light up your joint,
and I think I’ll be sick
as I hit my flashpoint.

I wasn’t there
when you bought the lighter.
It isn’t fair
you were forced to be a fighter.

Smoke rises between
your pointer and your thumb.
I think of when we were fifteen,
young, and dumb.

I missed you like a piece of me.
No, that’s not right.
I missed you like the tree
that fed my fire and brought light.

You pass the joint over.
I take the excuse
to lean in closer
and feel the warmth you produce.

I ignite upon contact
with your fingers.
We smile like a pact,
and the flame lingers.