She’s asleep in bed when I get home, her moonlit body cut by razor shadows. Her breaths are like warm, whispered endearments chasing last night’s argument, her jasmine scent like a belated apology. I watch a match’s flame flicker after lighting a cigarette. Rising, swaying, the flame resurrects abandoned waltzes. Her jasmine joins the explosive smell of sulfur, intertwining in a condemning stench. Together they smell like regret, like guilt. Like this adulterous scent I’ve dragged home. Flailing like arms of the drowning, the flame sinks before dying against my fingertips.
      Hate me. Leave me, I think but never say.