"Careful,"
he said.
"If you burn all those
Bridges
You won't be able
To go home."
& he tried to take the
Matchbox
From her hands
& she was stubborn
Enough to convince herself
That it was a permanent
Fixture to her
Sweating palms
& heavy indiscretion.
"I was never much for superstition,"
She tried to tell him
As they stood on the final
Steel structure
"It won't matter what you
Burn."
He tried to reassure
But the tone
Was more of longing
Than comfort
& everything was already
Soaked in gasoline
& she couldn't
Bear
To listen to that song
Of reason.