Crowns

Memories can flow into you like a match being struck. First, there is a fierce pulse, a burst of passion. There is a colorful pop that is the result of a quick strike, which is a fond slap of memories that, once remembered, burn their way to the end until they bum out; until all that's left is a weakened, blackened body, the stick of a single match, the release of a restless body. It cannot be relit, you cannot be burned with that same fiery passion. Much like the single cigarette out of that old Crowns box from an eerily close November night years ago, from which my own match is struck as I graze the lid of the now vintage, red and white cigarette box. I open it and see the uniformed cigarettes lined up stiffly, with one single cigarette missing.  A new match is struck.