Matches to Flames

September 20, 2010
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I see a man under the bridge
I ask him for a drag
He says, “Aren’t you a little young”
I tell him I’m older then I look
He hands me a fresh cigarette
It fits snugly in between my fingers
I take out a match from my back pocket and flick it against a wall
And throw it down near my shoe
I begin to inhale and all feels right with the world
Soon I begin to smell smoke
The taste sings to my tongue like some beautiful siren
I take in every drag as if my last
Every sweet breath I savor
The smoke grows to smell like burning rubber
Soon I begin to hear people scream
What do I care?
The man had ran away
Only one last puff left
And as I begin to look down at the smoldering end of my cigarette all I see is my body being engulfed in the flames from that little match

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