I’m carrying his lighter today. His first lighter. It’s brass plated, wearing away a little at the edges. It’s been loved. I wish I knew its stories, when he first got it, when he used it, whether he lit the cigarettes he smoked after breaking up with his ex with it.

It feels intimate, this object in my hand. It’s a piece of him, and if I had pockets, I’d nestle it in one. Next to my skin like a kiss or a bite, trace my fingers over it surreptitiously when no one was looking. It would be like having him here with me, the warm little play of breath on my skin as he leans in over my shoulder.

I hate this week. This week of girl-body, necessitating intellectual intimacy instead of physical intimacy. It seems that in this week I am most easily distracted by his lips against mine, by the feel of his thumb stroking circles on the small of my back, of the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps next to me. I want to take him, in these moments, to crawl into his lap and push his pants aside, and have him within me.

Instead I’m carrying his lighter.


One Response to “objects”

  1. Something so mundane so well expressed and explored. How marvelous, thank you! x

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