The Cartography of Small Fires

In the winter kitchen, a match blooms — a brief chrysanthemum of sulfur, and the kettle gathers its quiet vowels as if the stove were a mouth learning to sing.

We fold the day into towels and warm cups, steam stitching the air with transient lace; outside, the streetlamps rehearse their halos for a night that cannot quite decide to arrive.

I draw a map on the fogged windowpane, islands of breath, continents of palmprints, each a promise that vanishes as soon as named, each a compass that points only to now.

Later, embers go out like small stars, yet the room keeps their shape, an afterglow of hands, of habit, of the patient heat that teaches the dark how to be gentle.