Strike me like the matchstick
that mirrored you're intentions with perfect pouting lips-
and gentle fingertips
The intentions that stuck
(like you're words)
just like wet silk,
clinging tenaciously to my every thought
that carried to the rotting curtains
(the rain did it all, it fixes everything)
better for older wounds than salt
(even from the ocean)
brimming with you're intensity.
strike that match again,
that match made in my mind.
Made up pretty like my corner whore,
pretty just like me.