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You were the perfect match.

However to be the perfect match, is to light the perfect fire.

To ignite at the first touch, to create warmth by the first incidence of friction.

To be the perfect match, is to light up a room.

To touch every candle and to take away the darkness.

To make things that were once unknown and foreign become familiar and comforting.

To make the hard cold wax become fluid and warm, to create life and movement.

To bring warmth to the chill, and a glow to the skin.

However the match doesn’t survive for long.

Because for a match to do its job, it has to set itself on fire.

For every moment of warmth it creates, it withers.

It grows darker, it grows sharper, it grows fragile.

It grows cold. Not by intention, but by design.

As my perfect match, you took away the darkness.

You took away the unknown, you took away the chill.

Then you were gone, not by design, but by intention.

What remains still stays, but as it remains it doesn’t stay the same.

The light from the candles begin to flicker, in a way that no longer glows, but quivers.

The free flowing wax begins to hit the floor, it begins to splash, it begins to burn.

The warmth begins to die, and the light begins to fade.

The only way to feel the warmth that once was, is to touch the candle which once burned.

It sears against the skin, but not enough to hurt and not enough to take away the comfort of the heat.

But the comfort lasts only a moment, and what is left is the evidence of the attempt.

The hard wax seals on the tip of the fingers. The seals that reveal who is to blame.

The seals that reveal my fingerprints.

You taught me how to play with fire.

Then, you taught me it’s better to live in the cold.

You were my perfect match.

 

 

 

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