matchstick heart

“Stay,” that one, dangerous little word. “Stay” – an invitation to a choice, a seductively simple little temptation. Who knew that a “stay” spoken at three in the afternoon could be so different from one spoken at ten at night? Who knew what staying could lead to? Who knew that staying would lead to anything in the first place?

He, so cautious, and I, the experienced one. What happened to the walls we had put up? What happened to the halt that we had spoken of before? The boundaries, the rules, the safeguards?

Who knew that that one little word, “stay,” could tear down everything.


I was in your arms.

Hands and fingers

wheedling and winding,

venturing their way down

towards those southern regions.

Advances perhaps uninvited

but also unreproached,

an assenting silence

deadly as matchsticks,

but oh, the fire.

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