Like you,
the lighters that fall out of your pockets onto my bed
are not sentimental.
You leave
them behind and now,
they don't light up anymore — I tried —
the flints are moist but
not with tears for you
don't cry. Neither do I
(for that matter) because
the fire has died, is dead,
except the blue one.
I use it to light fires
for other lovers who lie on my bed
now.