Wet matches

June 26, 2014

You always had to pour on
every time.
You flooded the kitchen with porcelain tap water.
I floated down the den near the hearth
until a sound of white noise began to rise.

I began to rationalise;
we’d learn to swim,
or use our inflated egos to stay buoyant.
We almost believed it, didn’t we?

No, you’re right, we knew
we watered down our matches.

Our friends said we could be friends.
That it’d be no fire,
but it’d keep us warm.

It was never the warmth you needed, though,
I see that now
it was always the light.

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