and in the kitchen sometimes smolders a strange candle who never seems to drown;
the aroma of latex paint.
you hesitate under your breath, searching for a reason to leave me alone—
tonight you’ll snuff it out with an exhale of gin.
its flames waver; finally, these faint floating embers.
the scent adheres to me all the way home.
it reminds me of what mom used to say
when she would leave the room.
don’t touch the stovetop, she says.
it’ll hurt you.
you did anyway, and
I’ll never forget
the way you cried.
Alec Ivan’s work has appeared in Expat Press, Don't Submit, Back Patio Press, and Always Crashing. He is the author of the flash collection Photographs of Madness.