They say there's a chance these matches won't light. They are wooden and made to burn. Instead, they are locked in a box, where the key has been swallowed by countless clichés and incessant lies.

 Smoke will always follow fire, even if you pretend it was just a smolder of ash. 

It gets buried underneath the playground lights where we used to sit.A chalk line shows where my last breath took place. The last film streaming through my eyes is reflected against the rain, against the concrete,against your will.

My face is slowly dissolving into the ground.

You watch with no remorse as my features resentfully fade into the soil. Dusk is approaching and the sky is filled with violet clouds.They are the velvet for my sidewalk coffin.

They bring rain.

 No longer able to strike a flame the heart will harden and with it, a soul will die. They say there's a chance these matches won't light. Aren't they made to burn?

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