Perfect Match

You would burn it yourself.

Pile every picture,
every crisp and cracking flower,
every tender word whispered
in the never-long-enough nights
we refused to regret,

and light it up.

Drenched in the kerosene of
embarrassment
those trembling promises,
confident promises,
throbbing promises
that your lips made like
paper cranes-
so flammable.

We built a whole house of cards,
reaching nearly to heaven
(not near enough)
babbling brazenly that
“It will last. It will be.”

Fools.

You would burn it yourself.
But let me strike the match.