Me and the match
were a match made in heaven.
I don’t remember if it was warm
the first time I decided to strike it.
Too starstruck I was,
by its light,
its subtle flaming crackle,
its faint artificial fragrance–
my mouth dry in the face of danger
close enough to touch.
Better to be burned,
than remain dull, sandy, boring.
This was much more interesting.
I could see it, hear it, smell it, taste it.
But still I panicked and snuffed the flame
before we got anywhere real.
The next time, I stared a little longer.
discarded wind for water,
and doused it.
I shouldn’t have given it a second chance,
me and my match,
but at least we won’t get a third.
The light never warmed me anyway.
For whatever reason, I’m really into poetry these days.