he checks his pulse on the balcony. it's 2:14 in the morning, and the comforting throb reverberates in the blackness. the moon's playing hide and seek, but he's too busy counting stars. hands fumble for the lighter, a little flick, a small flame; it's 2:18 and it feels good to breathe it in. inhale. counting stars...8,9,10,11....exhale. smoke leaving lies on his parted lips. and tonight he's lighting up again. this part is essential in this never-ending tale. he's out of cigarettes, and he never liked those scented candles. striking that match, the orange glow illuminating his hollow eyes.
he's running now, bare feet slapping pavement. now gliding through wet grass. rocks between his toes. the flame growing larger, and he licks those half-truths on his lips. still counting stars....12,13,14,15.....
the bridge burns.
william faulkner writes of a barn burning. but tonight, the story changes. the flames licking the river, consuming past mistakes and regrets.
because he lit the match that burned the bridge.
now, counting stars, where was he?
...16, 17, 18, 19...
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