I like using fire as an analogy, a metaphor, the punchline for most of my poetry

I often describe the heart as if it were a hearth, while its beats were the heat it radiated

I see it—sometimes a roaring flame, often times a steady bonfire, other times a dying match.

It could scorch you if you aren't careful, but it also provides you warmth and light. A sort of clarity. Comfort.

It allows some of the toughest things on Earth to become malleable and mold itself into something new

It turns the bitter into sweet, the biting cold to teeth-sinking warm, the tasteless into delicious

It allows the spirit to soar with columns of smoke to the heavens while the body becomes fertilizer for daisies

It takes beauty, and burns it black and ash to the point of no recognition

Fire is so precious, and dangerous, and essential, and beautiful, and ugly—just like this hearth of a heart

Tended and regulated well, it's the greatest discovery of mankind

Allowed to burn out quick, or spread out of control, then it's the accident that burned down London in 1666

I believe I should end this by saying: find someone who will tend to your hearth as if it were their last dying light, instead of a person who would simply roast marshmallows with forest fires

I have only one match left

One gave me a sparks and nearly caught fire, but instead turned out to be too fragile to use, so I set it aside in hopes that it would give me a flame one day when its ready

The one before that was lit too brightly and burnt my fingers, making me drop it on the ground to burn out on its own, scorching the ground below me with licks of orange and red and passion I don't know how to handle

That one match on the counter, I'm far too afraid to ignite, and instead allowed it to grow wet and unusable to even strike against the rough to attempt to set it ablaze

All the others were duds and broke too easily, so I had to throw them all away, unable to be used for the warmth it should have provided

I have only one match left

How will I ever light my way?