the lighter is familiar; smooth silver metal scuffed from use, the size, the weight. the flip-snap of the lid flicked open and closed. snick. snick. spark in the darkness but no flame. damn thing’s empty but still carried anyway. like the feel against the palm. undemanding companion. flick flick flick, back and forth. snick snick snick, tiny spark. burn marks against wood; the ghosts of flames. isn’t fire the domain of the sun? not everything is as it seems. you don’t have to touch the flame for it to leave its mark. does the flame not deserve to live as well? to eat, to grow, to survive and thrive? we are reborn in ash and smoke. fire may come naturally to the sun, but the moon better comprehends its potential.