Lit a match in the wind. It fought—
not for warmth, nor for light,
but to be.
The girl at the café said I was distant.
I said I was present in my own way.
She smiled,
and the match went out.

The world doesn’t owe us tenderness.
Still, I reached for her hand once—
she recoiled like I’d handed her
a stone instead of skin.
I wanted to say: this is what I have.
The stone is not cold,
only honest.
I almost lied, just to feel her hand stay.

I walk the same street each dusk.
Dogs bark behind rusting gates—
wiser than men who beg love to stay.
I nod at them.
They understand revolt.
To love her would mean surrender,
and I was born with fists
even when I pray.