Struck matches ignite quickly,
And then burn brightly in your hand until you
Blow them out
And watch a stream of smoke
Curl into a smirk in the air.
You and I were like a book of matches.
Every converstation was a flame
I hungered for
And every disappointment
A means to blow it out.
An inferno can be a beautiful thing, but
I should have known better than to
Play with fire.
Now all I'm left with is a few charred matches,
A few burnt fingers,
And a pile of soot
That I'd rather sweep under the carpet
Like in a Mary Poppins movie.
I use my last match to light a cigarette
And I inhale the sweet air,
Tasting a hint of failure.
My lungs fill with smoke
And somewhere in my exhale
I become a cynic.