Lighters

I took no offense at all, but this is to let you know the conversation was appreciated. It really was.

You don’t often find people like myself walking around looking for seats in an empty arena full of opportunities, so don’t look over the heads hoping to find a black and white image of a prank you didn’t see the other side to. I’m the kind of person that gets soaked in the rain and floats away stuck to the underside of a paper boat that would eventually reach the estuary and sink at the meeting of a gentle tug of an ocean current. The kind that has edges so rough that a shoulder that brushes past could start a fire; a fire so tired and exhausted that all it needs is a sigh of relief to be put out, much less a cold gush of evening wind; fires that don’t last as long as anyone would ever want them to. Fires that give life to bored conversations that sleep takes over soon enough. The kind of person that comes wrapped in layers of paper and wax, revealing gun powder on the inside, enough for child’s play but never allowed close to one. Always a disappointment, always slow to light up, always put off before it’s time to go. Always unconsidered, a back pocket option, a last resort and nothing else. If all else fails, people like me; we’ll be there. I’ll be there… to be blamed, to be cursed at, to be thrown or forgotten. The kind of person that waves on seas named after colors accompany along with cold winds as tired fingers write letters to people they’ll never come to touch. Voices they’ll never come to hear, souls they’ll never come close enough to see through. Words written by moonlight at 02:42 that may or may not reach the eyes of a person who dodged the responsibilities of a prank by questioning my presence.
Because when you asked for a matchbox you didn’t ask for one at all. You simply asked me if I belonged to the world you were witnessing, because matchboxes… Matchboxes don’t mean much in a world full of lighters.

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