The Match

Flick a match
And hear the soft scratch
A slight light burns
Meanders
And steadies

You hold out
Your palm
You shield the flame
From stray wind

The match approaches the wick
Which doesn't respond
Instantaneously

You persevere
You hold the match
Close, very close
To the wick
Until the flame is shared

Your hand still there
You reach out
To put the lamp
In its own home

The tiny flame
That once wasn't
Will now
Light your home

Like you

I thought I just loved you.

"Love breaks my bones and I laugh." He said.

Buckowski. 

It's funny because he hadn't even seen me do that when he wrote that. And yet so prosaic, so poetic, so hauntingly honest.

A thought crosses, says "Like you."

I honestly thought I had you. I wanted you. A billion times over.

As a child. As a confused adolescent. As a young woman. As a strong woman.

A hundred thousand things changed and I thought perhaps one didn't.

Tigers change stripes they say, and I did. So much so I can't even recognize the person in the mirror. How she dresses, thinks, drinks and behave: all so alien so the girl who met you.

Maybe it was a dream. Lucid. Vivid. Unreal.

Maybe for a few fleeting moments, I thought you cared.

I know I did, dreaming or not.

I had faith in purity. Purity of love. Of you, or at least the idea of you.