It’s been raining since September
I’m down to my last match
Every twig and leaf has been soaked and corrupted by the cold slush of March
My socks have suffered the same fate
I’ll tell you the simple truth of things
When I had a whole box of matches
I felt like a millionaire
I’ll tell you a secret, and it’s only for you
In those gilded days of rows and rows of matches, I lit one when I’d already got the fire going
Just to watch the orange light flicker and bend
Then, I watched the smoke curl and blow away gently like it was saying goodbye and cursing my wastefulness at the same time
It wasn’t until I was holding a skinny stick, its red soldier’s cap blackened and soot-stained that I realized how stupid I was
Well, it’s been three days since I had four
And even now, I don’t quite know how to use them sparingly
I’m sure I could do better with another opportunity
Remember what you said about how in the south of France, there is a mansion filled to the brim
With paintings and sculptures
Masterpieces brought forth from delicate canvases and unbreakable slabs of marble
Salvaged from crumbling museums and hidden away for protection
So that when this is over— and how I hope one day soon it is— they’ll be safe
That’s magic, that’s bravery, pure and heartfelt and all that, you were mesmerized by it
Your eyes shined like opals catching light even in our dim shoebox apartment
And all I could think was how isn’t it brave to touch your hand in a church pew
Somewhere ancient and sacred, full of scripture and stained glass
Isn’t it magic the way your smile could blind the stars
Isn’t it pure and heartfelt when you say forever like a promise and hold me like we couldn’t stand to be apart
We’re beyond the realm of best friend now, but you’ve told me that too
Like an old prayer passed on by weathered hands and lined faces
A poem carved in the center of a jewelry box in spiraling cursive
I’m down to my last match
Last week, I think I had six
I kept a fire going with the last letter I got
It wasn’t a roaring one, barely kept frost off my bones, but I made do
Your handwriting, because I don’t know if you can call chicken-scratch penmanship, caught fire
And I hate to admit it but I smiled
Shouldn’t even tell you that but hiding it would be awful because you asked how I am
Fair weather friends would hide it, say they found a rabbit’s burrow with some dry sticks instead
But you and me, we’re forever
We’d stand in the rain and let hail pound the ground around us
It’d be dark out, the moon shrouded by dusty gray clouds
But we’d stand on a pier that was falling apart when it was first put together
Just to talk face to face for the first time in forever
This is the third letter I’ve written to you
But don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything
They all said the same thing
The same thing we’ve always known since before we even knew our own names
Which is that I’m yours and you’re mine
The first letter I wrote got smudged by a raindrop
It must’ve hung in the treetops, collecting itself on the last remaining leaf in the forest
Just waiting to ruin it, and the black ink poured down like tears, like rain on a window
You know I don’t give up easy though, so I got my jacket out
And made sure every raindrop in a two-mile radius knew not to mess with me
The second letter fell in a mud puddle
And I could only blame myself for that one
But in my defense, it’s hard to light a match as dusk begins her steady approach,
And that was how I lost my last two matches
So I have one match now and I’m clinging to it like it’s a newborn
If I had a newspaper, I’d give it a little hat, some protection from the cruelty of raindrops
Although, I can hardly blame them as it’s just in their nature to fall down
In the name, I suppose
And isn’t it in our nature as humans to love things? If you love something, you protect it
I suppose rubber duckies are the best example, or at least, the only one I could think of right now
They serve no purpose, they float and turn upside down like canoes
Yet children protect them, play with them
Is that not their purpose then?
I worry I need to hear the sound of another voice before morning
Or else I risk insanity and might give my last match over for a rubber ducky, if such a thing can be found
Now that I think about it, if I had a newspaper, I’d use it to keep the fire going
If it was dry
But then again, if it was wet, I wouldn’t have much use for it, so I would probably try to light it anyway
You’d tell me I’m wasting paper— why not write on it instead— but that’s in direct contrast to what you told me two years ago, which is that nothing I do is ever a waste
If you’ve got a response to that, please enlighten me
This place is severely lacking in good arguments these days
There is nothing to think about except raindrops and the cold and the purpose, the true nature of inanimate objects and letters and fire and what I’d do if I had a newspaper and matches, of course
I seem to be in rather short supply of those
P.S. the last match fell in a puddle, send more?