I carry your lighter in my purse, scuffed and dented silver, the one I like to think you left for me to find, but for what reason? As a sign to wait, to stay faithful despite my doubt? Or to seek you out in alleys that reek of tobacco and piss, in dark places where I am not safe, not wanted? Were you telling me I am necessary, linking me to yourselves with this single found object? Or that I am a beggar at your feet, scrabbling for your castoffs? Were you trying to show me the flame has guttered out or that I should raise my hand and set fire to… what? The world or myself? The past or the present or the future? I have never claimed to know you, specter. I only see what you want me to see. So what were you trying to show me?