Still Warm

There's a particular patience to sitting on a dresser. Not the patience of waiting for something to happen — more like a watch that's already stopped, kept because you recognize it. That's where I've been since January: between the old photograph and the face-down watch, three inches from where you set me down and didn't pick me back up.

I don't fault you for it. You quit the cigarettes — that was the right call, and somewhere in that decision I became a different kind of object, the kind you hold onto without knowing exactly why. The lighter fluid's still in me. The flint still catches. If you tried the wheel right now, I'd give you a flame without complaint.

Your father palmed me differently. He was slow about everything — let the wind take two or three attempts before he'd cup his hands, like the delay was part of what he was doing. He'd carry me all morning in his front shirt pocket before the first smoke, and sometimes I'd go back in unlit. I think that's its own kind of ritual — the one where you're still deciding.

I was in his hand the day he went to see the doctor. And yours, too, the day you went to hear what that visit had meant. Both times, the click of the lid was just something to do with your fingers when there were no right words yet.

I'm not asking you to smoke again. I'm not asking for anything, really — objects don't ask. But I've been sitting in the same three inches of light since January, and every few weeks you move me slightly to dust underneath, then set me back. I notice the weight of that. The almost-picking-up.

If you opened the lid tonight — just once, just to feel the hinge and the smell of the fluid and the small authority of that click — I'd count that as enough. I've held warm before. I know how to again.

[Verse 1] I sit between the watch and the photograph, the same three inches since January. Your thumb knows the way — left side, pull back — but you haven't found a reason to carry.

[Pre-Chorus] There's still fluid in me. I could catch for you.

[Chorus] I am still warm from the last time, or maybe I just remember the feel. You held me before you shook hands with the doctor, before you decided what was real.

[Verse 2] Your father's thumb was slower than yours, he let the wind go a round or two. He'd palm me all morning before anything started, the way some men think without moving through.

[Pre-Chorus] There's still fluid in me. I could catch for you.

[Chorus] I am still warm from the last time, or maybe I just remember the feel. You held me before you shook hands with the doctor, before you decided what was real.

[Bridge] I don't need to burn. I only need to be picked up once — just to know the hand again, just to click once, settle back.

[Chorus] I am still warm from the last time, or maybe I just remember the feel. You held me before you shook hands with the doctor, before you decided what was real.

[Outro] Still warm. Still here. Still yours.