I played with the flames of fire,
with the matches,
they're still burning in my hands,

you can try to drown me out,
but baby i will burn every last inch of you,
even if I have to burn the whole world for you to see.

I'll burn down with everybody,
but you caught me,
and the rain came down like it never did before,

the rain blew me out,
and I layed their weak,
and you laughed because I was me.

Rekindling old flames and lighting half gone cigarettes is what I'm known for.
It never is quite the same, really. The taste is all but gone, the flint gone from the match before you can even strike it. The taste of you is just a bitter reminder, like kicking that habit for good and taking the first drag off a cigarette in six months.
Then I started over.
There's a difference really from starting an entirely new fire and trying to relight pieces of charred and half burned pine that got rained on. One will burn bright for a minute and fizzle out. The other will burn a lifetime.
That last drag on a new cigarette never tasted more like addiction.

Burn a match for me,
A single, solitary light
Please, oh god, I need it
Strike it up against my side
It's what I live for,
Searching for the flame
A fuse at high noon,
Nowhere near the night.
You turn your head away,
and I wonder why you still refuse,
Though I beg and plead and crawl.
"Get off your knees," you say,
I only shiver and I fall.
All I ask is a tiny match,
One half-an-inch of flame,
Give it, bring it, feed it to me,
One spark that calls my name.

I WILL BE THE MATCH TO YOUR FIRE//

I SHALL BE THE HEAT THAT EMITS

ABOVE AND ALL AROUND YOUR FLAME//

I SHALL MOVE AND SWAY

UNCONTROLLABLY LIKE A MUSE

THAT OBEYS THEIR MASTER//

I SHALL SWEAR MY HEAT TO PROTECT YOU

TO KEEP YOUR ICHOR FROM FREEZING

TO KEEP YOUR SOUL SNUG, ALWAYSS//

I SHALL BE INDESTRUCTIBLE

and i only ask of you

to not ponder on why...

i am so threatening

I WILL BE THE MATCH TO YOUR FIRE//

and i only ask of you ..

to not ever be the reason

my flame extinguishes.

my fingers are like matches

because everything I touch turns to ash.

I swear my intentions are golden

and my goals are pure.

but I can’t seem to keep from burning bridges

and speaking singed words.

I spend all my time,
All my money,
And most of my remaining sanity
To stack together this perfect house.

Little pieces all fit together perfectly,
But there are thousands.
It feels like I could never, ever
Count that high.

I strain to hold it together.
I didn't think to get glue.
I'm about 1/4 of the way trough.

These matches break so easily.
I start to think I litarally brought the ******* matches available.
One wall falls.

I want to shout as loud as I can.
But I imagine what the finished product would be.
I'd probably have your name in books.
Multiple ******* books.

I rebuild the wall.
I push on, I don't stop until night fall.
I'm about half way through.

I take a cigarette break.
I look back on the hours.
I mainly remember the ****** parts.

A few cigarettes later I push on once more.
I build until late morning.
At this point I'm are about three quarters of the way there.

I again take a break,
Only this time to stay in what I have built, but not continue to build it.
I think back.

Why am I making this house of matches.

Why am I even here?

I remember your vision of the house.
I see you still have hours of work,
Easily stretching till dinner time.

The question is do I finish and stay at the house, or do I go home to make a nice meal for myself?

I went home.

When I came back the house was burnt away.
A frail, blackened frame remain.
No amount of good duct taping could fix it.
No amount of new matches could clean it up.

I still see the ash pile in my mind from time to time.

Next,
I tried a house made of fuses.