Nov 25

2 fires

She is from a lighter that belongs in a worn brown leather jacket
Cold and hard and shiny-bright
The fire is blue and comes hot and ready with the whisper of a touch
She has worked in the backs of trucks and beneath buildings and over a table
Under the stars
She will not fade out in rain but she will not blaze brighter at dusk
She smells, the sweet release of addiction and salt and breaking in leather boots
She stings with the white-hot kiss of a lighter and leaves clammy cylinders of longing in palms

She is from a matchbook and lives packed between emergency gum and organic peanut butter and stickers
Warm and dramatic, unpredictable and hot
The flame is orange and takes payment
Coaxing, prayers, small sacrifices of incense and sweat, little scraps of hair and baby teeth
She has struck in between fingers young and plump, old and shriveled
She will melt at the thick smell of thunder but has saved many a wandering traveler nights alone
She mesmerizes and mimics, throwing balls for shadows to fetch and beckoning knuckles closer
She roasts with the hungry march of a matchbook and leaves cold hands warm and alone