Match – a poem

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,
I thought,
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.
Too long.
I panicked
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.


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