Matchstick
Track 5 - May 1, 2025 4:18 PM
She was a match.

I was the strike-pad.

All it took was one touch

For a rush of heat in a world gone cold.


She flared bright,

like she was born to burn

and I was made to bear it.


Rub her the wrong way,

and she was gone.

Smoke curling where a spark used to live.


I stayed behind,

charred and quiet,

still warm from the heat,

still hoping maybe the fire meant something

before it vanished into air.


But matches don’t stay lit.

They strike,

they burn,

they go out.


And the pad

it stays behind,

blackened, but still waiting

for something that won’t return.