A box of matches in your hand

You hold one before me, I catch your glance

I watch you strike it,
friction igniting an incense of fireside

I see the flame reflecting in the glossiness of your eyes

So bright and beautiful, warm

As swift as it’s flame became, it’s out

The smell of burning pine, cold

So comforting yet sullen

and without regard or regret I had fallen

Falling now, deeper into ashes

Of quickly struck matches