As the key sticks I can't write, the story

						collapses, it drops

 to being just a muttering,

					a thought,	unheld, 	to be forgotten.
I think I should smoke	open my matches, strike – it slides quietly down the side

     of the box.
 I look away 		turn to it, check.

 The red tips are insight, – waiting.

The next coughs, splutters, lights, 	 Next time I'll take out two,   I will now

always – now alway – take out two 		just to be sure.
The light flickers,

we both flicker,

 twitch.
The screen is still. 		 The smoke wafts past.

The screen is still as I take two matches from the box.  I look quickly down to

the matches, 			— both good
I look to the screen, I should smoke/didn't smoke the matches wouldn't

matter/letter hadn't stuck I wouldn't have smoked.
 

 
There's a taste, 	—-	—		a taste of paint.
The pencil I've picked up tastes of paint-then lead.

I write the missing letter on the surround of the keyboard/touch the key with

the pencil's paint-less tail/letter appears,

						sits silently,

								patiently.
I can't think what I would have written before the key stuck so I take the letter

off the screen.
The pencil's letter sits alone on the surround, written on matt and neutral plastic.
 The key is worn, symbol disappearing, the key ingrained with me.
An eraser won't remove the pencil's letter, it takes just the surface and leaves a

ghost, a ghost of the letter in the mattness of the surround.
I tap the key again.

Just the same, just as patient.

I could start with it.

The ghost in the plastic agrees/worn key tells me right.
The room's light now just stops.
Only the letter sits/glows/waits 		to start.
The ghost unlit,
Key already knowing.