Benson’s girl

I strike the match just once and search the flare.

I see an ending that wore the shape of a start.

I catch a glimpse of her through the glare.

Benson’s girl – she was playing solitaire,

content to leave the candles dark.

I strike the match but she’s barely there.

Monet’s sunrise outlined her in golden glare.

Candles gathered dust as you became the spark.

The mirror glimpsed a girl, becoming - there.

Her scars became flowers, pinned in her hair.

You held the clouds at bay, took the pain apart.

No need to strike a match she was glowing fair. 

A call – you left a wound in the air.

Silence hissed like a cruel remark.

The mirror showed cracks in its stare.

I look in the mirror, is she there?

In that landscape so desolate and stark 

I strike the match just once and search the flare.

I catch a glimpse of me – laid bare.