Put Out

you would light candles
and the air stung of sulfur.

ten lighters in your bag but you still used matches.

that one night, late summer
(you argued early autumn)
when we boiled with windows kept shut
to protect the flame of some candle laced
with the scent of cinnamon
 and crisp, scattered leaves.

like children,
you protected the lighting-bug wicks
and they glowed until succumbing
to self-suffocation.

the smoke, sulfur, and cinnamon
still linger in the sofa we used to share.

when our abandoned bed becomes too much,
i'll curl up in the couch cushions
and i am thankful for those scents that
take up the empty space
where your apple shampoo smell used to stay.