MATCH

They lie in a small box like soldiers in tin hats in a mass grave

Waiting to be resurrected for a few more fiery moments

Each one is a quiet, slim brunette

Turned by the flick of a wrist into a flaming redhead

But as soon as oxygen gives them life

The breeze tries to take it away

I brought a box from a shack in a forest

They lit first time and burned bright and long

Until they slowly faded when they wanted to

I burned every one of them but set fire to nothing

And held the last one in my hand

Black and bent, exhausted and extinguished

It was a good match.

I guess I could buy a lighter

And commit to a longer lasting flame

But I like going back to the shop

And buying over and over again.