Match

That day was hot and dry and I guess we were both restless.

Mama always said don't play with matches and any fool could have told you we were asking for trouble, especially on a day like that.  Well, trouble has a way of turning up whether you ask it to or not and the two of us were practically begging.

I don't remember which one of us struck the match but I think you were the one who dropped it.  Lord knows I did my fair share to fan the flame once we started though.

It was fun at first.  It was a bit of a thrill and it felt good.  The heat felt good, your teeth felt good and it felt good to dance out of the way of the flame just before it licked our skin and left its angry red signature down our calves.

I guess we weren't fast enough though, and before I knew it my t-shirt and sweats were no longer a barrier, and not even your spring cool fingertips could sooth my feverish skin.  I was intoxicated by my own blood, by the smell of your cologne and the sting of smoke in my eyes.

You can't stop a wildfire once you set it loose and I couldn't stop your hard, callused hands from making their rounds across my body.  I couldn't unlock your fingers from my hipbones or stop you from pulling me closer every time I stepped away, and I couldn't stop us from self-destructing once we lit that match.

I couldn't stop the smell of smoke from lingering, either, and I cried myself to sleep that night.

That night was hot and dry and I was left bruised and broken and I guess you were still restless.